The Queen's Margarine (25 page)

Eileen marched into the dining-room, where the elegantly set table seemed just more wasted effort, as did the impressive hazelnut gateau she had made as a dessert. Although one of her husband's favourites, it wasn't exactly a staple on the menu, since it was extremely time-consuming, not to mention fiddly. Gerald had probably glutted himself already, on oysters and champagne, in bed, so why would he want dessert?

‘Yes, she is a good cook – I'll give her that. But I could just as well hire a housekeeper. What's important in a marriage is what goes on between the sheets, not what's on the dinner table. I want to eat your glorious pussy, darling, not my wife's confections.'

Again she tried his number. ‘The Vodaphone you are calling is …'

Where
was
he, for God's sake? And why had he switched off his phone? There was no one else she could contact to discover what was going on. She didn't have Samantha's number, nor did she remember Henry's surname, so she couldn't try Directory Enquiries. And Gerald had failed to give her an address, only the name of the village and the church – a deliberate oversight, no doubt, and one that seemed increasingly suspicious. In fact, reflecting on their marriage, hadn't it always been somewhat enigmatic, full of guesswork on her part when it came to Gerald's sentiments? They had been declared one flesh, back in 1989, but a similar meeting of minds had never quite occurred. Rather, they proceeded along parallel lines that very rarely touched or intertwined, and it even felt at times as if her husband was a foreign country, with her, the would-be explorer, left baffled and excluded, without a guide or map – never more so than right now.

She turned on the radio to check the travel news, but there were no reports of accidents, hold-ups or road-closures. The earlier heavy rain had stopped; the weather settled into relative quiescence, with no fog or snow or sleet or gales to cause problems for a motorist.
She
was the one who was storm-tossed; out of touch with the season. It might be April outside, but, here at home, it was stark November.

Peering out of the window, she watched other cars drone past in the street, but no sign of their blue Volvo. Perhaps it had broken down, although that seemed highly improbable when it had been serviced just last week. Gerald was an efficient type, who ensured his precious vehicle was in first-rate running order, and his mobile fully charged. And, anyway, it was even more unlikely that both car and phone would conk out simultaneously.

Suddenly decisive, she returned to the table, rammed the knives and forks back into the drawer; returned the glasses to the sideboard, re-corked the wine and refolded the lace tablecloth.
Gerald wouldn't eat at this hour – elaborate meals, consumed late on in the evening, tended to give him indigestion. And her pork, prune and Armagnac casserole could hardly be called plain. Maybe they could have it for tomorrow's dinner –
if
he were back tomorrow. He might never come back; never phone her; just disappear without trace, like those chilling stories featured in the tabloids.

‘Look, get a grip on yourself,' she muttered. ‘You're behaving like a lunatic.' Would any woman, even a bitch like Samantha, really fall into bed with another man on the day of her husband's funeral, let alone run off with him? The house was probably full of grieving relatives, many of them staying over, so the widow and the hostess could hardly sneak away to some steamy little love-nest.

Actually, she ought to be more sympathetic – widowhood was bleak, especially at so young an age. However, sympathy wasn't easy towards someone who'd cast a shadow on her life; forever underlining the point that Gerald's first and natural choice of wife was a woman utterly different from herself. Indeed, if she hadn't chanced to meet him within a week of his broken engagement, when he was stunned and thrown off-balance, he probably wouldn't have married her at all. There was no denying the fact that she was hardly a worthy substitute – old for a first marriage (thirty-one to Samantha's girlish twenty), and not in the same class in terms of physical attraction. In truth, that sense of being second-best had affected her profoundly, made her feel insecure, wife almost by default. Yet, here she was, still married, after nineteen years, and although Gerald was uncommunicative – unable constitutionally to lay bare his inner soul – he seemed happy enough with his second choice, or had been up till now.

All at once, a wave of all-consuming heat stampeded through her body; scorching from her chest to her neck, her face, her upper arms – her fifth hot flush this evening,
and
the most intense. Flinging open the window, she inhaled a few deep breaths, but, despite the cold night air, her hair was already wet with sweat, and beads of perspiration were trickling down her back. As she leaned far out, still gulping air, she saw the vile Samantha roll triumphantly on top of Gerald: her skin cool and fresh against his naked limbs; her long hair soft and fragrant, rather than wet and
coarse and sparse; her flesh firm to the touch, with no unattractive bulges.

Slamming the window shut (and the bedroom door, to boot), she forced herself to settle down and watch the News at Ten. The succession of disasters – mass slaughter in Darfur, atrocities in Kenya, rioting and bloodshed in Belgrade – helped to put her own plight in perspective. She might have an errant husband and a few menopausal symptoms, but she was neither dead nor wounded, nor living in a war zone. Although she was, in fact, ravenous, having eaten nothing since breakfast. (The dearth of jobs at the agencies had temporarily quashed her appetite.)

Slouching over to the sideboard, she hacked a large chunk off the cake. Too bad that Gerald hadn't seen it in all its finished glory. She had decorated the top with three circles of whole hazelnuts, interspersed with curls of bitter-chocolate and piped rosettes of cream. The decoration alone had taken the best part of an hour, not to mention the time she'd spent grinding up the hazelnuts (used in place of flour), then making the
crème patissière
that sandwiched the six layers, and finally the praline topping.

She ate standing up, hardly bothering to chew, just stuffing in great fistfuls of the stuff, despite the fact that it was exceptionally rich. She had probably gone overboard, putting praline on top, as well as cream inside. But it had been a deliberate bid to pull out all the stops in an attempt to outshine her rival. Samantha might be ‘rich' in other crucial respects – looks and sexual wiles – but the wife at home could compensate with her extravagant cuisine.

Doggedly, she continued eating, although her enjoyment of the gateau brought diminishing returns, since she was depressingly aware it would only make her fatter. Samantha, in her imagination, was still as thin as a knife-blade, as delicate as a chocolate curl, and weighed little more than a swirl or two of cream. Besides, how had she managed to kid herself that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach? Admittedly, Gerald loved good food, but advanced, elaborate sex would be much more of a novelty; something he didn't get at home.

She shovelled in more cake, although disgusted by her greed and by the revolting way she was eating. Now, in addition to her bedraggled hair, there were smears of chocolate round her mouth,
sticky crumbs adhering to her blouse, and her hands were covered with cream. Half the cake was already gone; the rest a mangled mess. She had not only destroyed her handiwork, she'd made herself gross in the process. Yet somehow she had to prove that her gateau was worth eating; that her long hours in the kitchen hadn't been a total waste of time.

As she forced in one more chunk, she heard the sound of a key in the lock, and froze in shock and embarrassment. Gerald mustn't find her like this: slatternly, dishevelled; a glutton on a feeding frenzy.

Having dashed into the kitchen for a quick wash at the sink, she tried to calm her breathing as she went to confront him in the hall.

‘Whatever happened, Gerald? I've been out of my mind with worry.'

‘I'm sorry.'

Two words – nothing more. No excuses, explanations, convenient alibis. Thrown by his strange silence, she took a step closer, to check if there were blonde hairs on his coat, or perhaps a whiff of women's perfume clinging to his skin. No – none that she could see or smell. In fact, he looked exhausted; his complexion noticeably pale against the severe black of the suit. The accusing words shrivelled on her lips. This man seemed a stranger; not the Gerald who had left this morning. ‘Are you all right?' she asked.

He nodded, although giving the impression of someone knocked off-balance – as he had been twenty years ago, after the bust-up with Samantha. But, of course, a febrile reconciliation might be just as overwhelming.

‘Can I get you something to eat?'

‘No, thanks. In fact, I think I'll go and have a shower. I feel completely bushed.'

Bushed from
what
, she'd like to know? But before she could open her mouth to retort, he had disappeared upstairs. He hadn't even removed his coat, which was odd in the extreme. It was part of his routine to hang it on the hall-stand as soon as he came in. Then he would pour himself a drink and sit and talk a while. Although strictly unforthcoming on matters of emotion, he never failed to share with her the details of his day. Yet tonight he hadn't said a word about the funeral, his lateness, or the fact he hadn't
rung. And why on earth should he want to take a shower the very second he got in? To wash off Samantha's traces, or simply to escape? Perhaps he
had
to remove himself because the contrast was too great: the fat, infertile, messy wife dispelling his treasured memories of the slimly fecund mistress, sleek even in the sack.

Furious, she strode back to the kitchen, seized the casserole, took it out to the dustbin and tipped the entire contents in among the empty tins and tealeaves, the potato peelings and other sorts of trash. The vegetables went the same way. Why had she gone to so much trouble braising chicory and fennel, poaching carrots in butter, making potatoes
Lyonnaise
? She should have known he'd have no appetite – sated on Samantha. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if there'd been a funeral at all. Perhaps the whole thing was a smokescreen; part of a complicated web of lies that, for all she knew, might have been going on for months.

Deliberately she banged about in the kitchen, taking out her anger on the dirty pots and pans, scouring them with unnecessary force, before ramming them back on the shelf. Let him stew upstairs, reliving in the brothel of his mind all the disgusting things he'd done with his ex-fiancée – no longer ‘ex' at all, she'd bet.
She
intended staying down here – all night and every night – staying where she belonged as the skivvy and the kitchen-maid. Unless she grabbed a carving-knife and stabbed him through the heart.

All at once, she heard his feet on the stairs, and stood gripping the sink for support, as he came in to the kitchen, now in his pyjamas, his hair still wet from the shower.

‘Aren't you coming to bed?'

‘Bed? What, straight away? Gerald, I can't just settle down to sleep when I don't know what the hell's been going on. I know you're not exactly a chatterbox, but this really is a bit steep – I mean, not so much as opening your mouth when—'

‘I'm not feeling all that marvellous.'

‘But why? What's wrong? If you're ill, I ought to know.'

‘I'm not ill – just whacked. I'll tell you all about it in the morning.'

‘You'll be at work in the morning.'

‘Before I go, I mean. I'm knackered now. It's late.'

She damned well knew it was late. And why did he keep stressing his exhaustion? The adventurous sex had taken its toll, no doubt. She should demand an explanation –
now
.

‘Does Samantha have children?' she asked, instead, standing, arms akimbo, at the sink.

She saw him hesitate; prayed to God – to all the gods – that the answer would be no. It was actually quite possible. Samantha was the sort who wouldn't want to spoil her figure – a superficial creature, who'd be more concerned about droopy breasts and stretch-marks or the risk of a Caesarean scar, than about the joys of motherhood. ‘Well,
has
she?' she persisted.

‘Yes,' he said. No more.

Already she was reduced to racking jealousy. ‘How many?' she demanded.

Again he paused, which only stoked her fury.

‘Gerald, what's wrong with you, for God's sake? You stay out for hours and hours, and don't even bother phoning to tell me where you are, then, when you
do
come back, you refuse to say a word.'

Picking up the pepper-mill, he began examining it studiously, only to put it down again. ‘Four,' he said. ‘Two boys and two girls.'

His voice was soft, quite different from her own aggressive tone, yet the words were like a punch in the face.
Four
! For a woman of only forty. And they were bound to have been at the funeral, so Gerald would have seen them for himself: two beautiful, blonde daughters; two enchanting little boys. Perhaps they'd bonded with him instantly, desperate for a father.

He reached across and put his hand on her arm. ‘Do come to bed, darling. You know I hate sleeping without you.'

The ‘darling' and the gentle touch were merely guilt-induced, as was the specious stuff about wanting to sleep beside her. Now that he was home, he was beginning to feel uneasy and trying to make recompense – that was clear enough – yet the fact remained he expected her to acquiesce in his mysterious behaviour, and without any further probing on her part. Any woman with an ounce of pride would cross-examine him, not settle for evasions, and even she, the accommodating wife, was tempted to force a showdown for once; tell him loud and clear how his refusal to communicate was an insult, an affront.

Yet, all at once, she slumped against the sink, remembering her status. There was such a thing as a pecking order; a strict hierarchy, set in stone, impossible to overturn. A mother of four was inherently superior to an older, barren female, who was washed-up and expendable, without so much as a job – and Gerald's
second-choice
, of course; wife only by default. So, if she wanted to preserve her marriage, she couldn't afford to chivvy him or challenge him, or even beg him to engage with her, confide and open up. As sidekick to Samantha – strictly B-list to her rival's starring role – she couldn't actually afford to say another word.