Virtual Strangers (28 page)

‘Don’t worry,’ he reassures me. ‘It’ll go on divert if they ring for long enough.’ He returns his attention to kissing my breast.

Silence falls again - bar our again ragged breathing - but within minutes the tootling noise starts up again.

‘Why don’t you just answer it?’ I ask him. ‘Then it’s dealt with, isn’t it.’

What a silly, silly thing to say.

He pushes himself up onto his knees and reaches across to the chair for his jacket.

‘I can’t believe it,’ he groans. ‘The last call I had on this was you, yesterday. Why now? I’m at a bloody conference, aren’t I? Who the hell can it be?’

He slips the phone from his jacket pocket and peers at the display. It must, I realise, be one of those phones that indicate the number that’s called, because his expression suddenly changes and he climbs off the bed. Then he wordlessly presses the button to answer and takes his naked self to the en suite to talk.

Davina, then. Has to be. Bloody hell. Why her? Why now?

I sit up on the bed, feeling suddenly vulnerable, and meet my reflection in the reproduction mirror. I am pink and my hair is a seething great wasps nest. I look like a badly permed extra from
Cats
. I lie back down again and roll over, dragging the paisley bedspread protectively around me. Adulterers, I suppose, do get used to this stuff. Either that or they organise their deceit so efficiently that when they’re together their phones are switched off. What babies we two are. What sad, fumbling people.

Adam’s voice rumbles out through the tiling and plasterboard. I can’t make out the words but the tone is clear enough. He doesn’t sound cross. Or irritable, either. Just quietly pissed off. Which is just how I feel. I turn over again. Stand up. Get my Diet Coke. Drink some. Then begin the slow process of retrieving my clothes.

He emerges.

‘Davina.’

I nod at him. ‘Guessed so.’

He sees what I’m doing and starts doing likewise. ‘Wanted to know if we’re free Friday fortnight. Jesus! There’s some big charity dinner dance we’ve been invited to, apparently. And she has to know
now
, of course, because there’s going to be some big noise planning types there or something. Who need impressing.
Jesus
. Like I’m some bloody mascot she trails round behind her. And like dinner dances are
so
important in the scheme of things, aren’t they?’ He waves his hand to take in me, the bed, himself. All
this
. ‘Like they’re so
fucking
important, you know?’

He downs the rest of his beer in one long swallow, then picks up the second bottle and slams off the top against the side of the desk. The metal disc rattles and spins for a moment. Then is still. Adam stares at it, hand on his forehead, a faint sheen of moisture still wet on his brow.

I don’t know what to say to him. I have never heard him swear. I have never seem him angry. I cannot recall a time when he’s said anything bad about his wife. I feel suddenly as if I’m in the room with an absolute stranger. And that I most want to do, all of a sudden, is go home and cry. But he must see the chasm of reality that has now gaped between us, because he comes and sits down beside me again and holds me very tight.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says into my hair. ‘I’m so, so,
so
sorry. What a mess.’

‘Yes.’ It comes out as a whisper. Not my voice at all. A small, desolate thing.

He moves to look at me. Touches my face. ‘And you were right, of course. About it all ending in tears. Except -’

‘What?’

‘Except, Christ. Is that it?’ His eyes bore into mine then he’s up and off again, prowling around me, pulling on his boxers, donning the shirt that means next time I touch him, it won’t smell of him, feel of him - won’t
be
him any more. ‘I don’t know where we go now,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what we do.’

I don’t either. Except I should do, but can hardly bear to give the thought credence.

‘I think I go home,’ I say, wrenching my clothes on. ‘And you go back to your conference, and then we make that effort I’ve been banging on about. You know, the one that involves not seeing one another. Not communicating with each other any more.’

He shakes his head. ‘Don’t say that, Charlie. I don’t think I can.’

‘But you have to. You are married. And I,’ I am up now, ‘can’t live with this.’ I point to the phone which, its treachery done, now lies abandoned on the desktop, in the spotlight of the Tiffany lamp. ‘I can’t live with any of it. And neither can you.’

We are facing each other across six inches of tasteful pastel carpet. He runs gentle fingers across my forehead and loops my hair behind my ears. Such a physical,
intimate
thing to be doing.

‘I can’t
not
, Charlie. Not now.’ He moves forward to kiss me.

Instinctively, I find myself pulling away. ‘God, Adam. I told you! I can’t do this! It’s like she’s in the room with us now, for God’s sake.
Isn’t
it? Doesn’t it feel like that to you?’

I step back, leaving him framed by the window, his beautiful broad shoulders sloped in defeat.

‘No! It isn’t! You’re here, I’m here. No one else is! Forget it, can’t you?
Can’t
you?’

‘No, I can’t. Not when you’ll be going back to her tomorrow! Not when you’ll be going home and slipping into bed beside her! You don’t have to deal with
any
of that stuff! Oh, you can concoct all your little fantasies about
me
. Imagine what
I
might be doing. Reinvent me as some sort of irresistible siren. Keep me chaste in your head. Whatever! There are no grim realities to deal with. No wonder you were so bloody keen to see Phil packed off! Well, from
this
end of the deal, it’s not quite so rosy, believe me.’

He moves a step closer to me.

‘I don't sleep with her, Charlie.’

‘Oh, diddums! I wondered when we were going to get around to that old Chestnut. And do we get the next one? That pigs bloody fly.’

‘I don’t. We haven’t. Not for over a year now. We even have separate bedrooms, for God’s sake.’

He looks as if he’d like me to pop round and confirm it. ‘Oh, please -’

‘Look, I’m not trying to justify anything, Charlie. Just stating a fact.’

‘Ah! And don’t tell me. She doesn’t understand you?’

He pulls on a sock and then shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure understanding me is high on her list of priorities. I’m just
there
. But that isn’t the point. What’s important is that I no longer understand her.’

‘And what
exactly
am I supposed to do about that?’ I snort. ‘As if I much care anyway. And don’t talk to me about her not understanding. You should try working for her some time.’

As soon as I say it, I bitterly regret it. The one thing I really don’t want to do is bitch about Davina. I feel quite low enough. But before I can get my retraction worded and spoken, he says. ‘That wasn’t worthy of you, even if it is true.’

Which makes me mad.

‘I bloody well know that, thank you. I’m not myself. Can’t think why. Perhaps it’s because I haven’t been making too many successful life choices lately. Bit like you, I guess. But while we’re on the subject, just for the record, she certainly isn’t worthy of you.’

He sits down again and pushes his hands though his hair. ‘What a mess.’

‘You already said that.’

‘No, I mean my
life.
What a fuck up.’

‘I don’t need to hear this. I don’t need the run down on why we got to here, thank you. Or, more specifically, why
you
got to here. Don’t try tugging at my heart strings about it. If your marriage is a cock up then you should go home and sort it.’

I nearly said ‘end it’, but thank goodness I didn’t.

‘Believe me, I’ve been trying,’ he said. ‘Year in, year out. Trouble is, we’ve never been able to work out what the problem is. It’s just got steadily worse.’

I recall Rose’s words about her and Matt’s problems.

‘Then you should try harder,’ I hear someone say. Can’t be me. ‘You should deal with it. You should talk. Not spend your time sending flirtatious emails to strangers.’

His eyes flick up but he doesn’t rise to it. He shakes his head. ‘Oh we’ve done plenty of talking. Still do, as it happens. I say ‘what’s the matter’ and she says ‘I don’t know.’ It gets a touch repetitive, you know? She’s seeing someone now though. Has been for some months.’

I gape. ‘
Seeing
someone?’

‘A therapist. To work through her problems.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. Not much, anyway. The only progress we seem to have made is acknowledging that Davina has some sort of deep rooted psychological problem that we need to make progress with. But that, apparently,
is
progress.’

His words chill me so much that I can feel the winter afternoon drawing its frosty tendrils around me. This doesn’t sound dead in the water to me. The word ‘progress’ hangs between us like a starched white hankie on a washing line.

‘But she still loves you?’

‘She says so. Just doesn’t want to have sex with me. And wants children - badly. Just doesn’t want to do what you need to do to get them.’

God, I think, you just never know. This new Davina is surreal.

‘And you’re sure there’s no one else?’

He shakes his head. ‘This isn’t like that, Charlie. She says not. I believe her. She’s in a mess. She’s ill. She’s -’’

‘And you still love her.’ My voice has dropped a whole octave.

His eyes meet mine and hold them.

‘I care about her. I do care about her, Charlie. God, wouldn’t it all be so easy if I didn’t. And, Christ, I
married
her. But since meeting you -’

‘You mean emailing me.’

‘Yes, of course. Everything’s changed.’

I turn away so he can’t see the tears sloshing about in my eyes, but he turns too and pulls my face around. Suddenly I no longer care if he sees it.

‘And not just for you!’ I shout. ‘I don’t need all this grief! I’m not going to be the sex in your bloody stale marital sandwich!’

‘Look, I know what you want from me. I know how you feel. God, if only I could -’

‘Turn the clock back?’ I start collecting up the small evidences of my passing. My boots, my handbag. My swizzled up scrunchie. I feel dirty.

‘Please don’t do this.’

‘Do what? Leave this situation with some modicum of dignity?’ The tears are tracking down my face now. I sit on the bed and zip up my boots then start rummaging for my Handy Andies. He kneels in front of me.

‘Charlie, we can’t just draw a line under this. It’s not going to go away. Not now.’

I snap my body back upright. ‘How many more times are you going to spin me that line? We’re both adults! We can draw a line under any bloody situation we like! It just takes a little strength of character. It just takes knowing what you want, for goodness sake!’

He stands up as well.

‘I know what
I
want,’ I tell him. ‘I want out of this. You go and tend your sick wife and leave me to go climb my mountain.’ I yank my handbag over my shoulder and head towards the door.

‘But I need you -’

No, not that
. I swivel. ‘So leave
her
!’

His eyes drop. Six unhappy seconds thump by.

They rise again briefly. ‘Charlie, I can’t.’

Adam’s words, now released from their home in my nightmares, seem to flutter and dance in the light from the lamp.

‘Exactly,’ I say, quietly, pulling the door open. ‘I’m done here, I think.’

I go down via the stairs.

It is barely five but already the February night is reclaiming the city. Car headlamps stream back and forth in the murk and the offices are beginning to spew out their gaggles of typists and clerks. It’s far enough to the car park that I don’t want to walk it. I can’t seem to stop the huge gulping sobs that have accompanied my flight down the hotel stairs, and I can’t face the curious looks of commuters. When a see the welcome orange glow of a taxi
for hire
light, I don't care that it’s headed the wrong way.

‘Cost you, darling,’ the cabbie says, incurious yet smiling. ‘Traffic like this, you’d be quicker to walk.’

I climb in regardless and we head off through the car-scape, my fistful of tissue a tight ball in my lap.

He is right, of course. It takes close to twenty minutes to double back through the side streets, but I’ve at least dried my eyes and regained some sort of control. I pay my parking fee - a king’s ransom for four such deeply miserable hours - and take the lift down to where my car waits to greet me. All I want to do now is get home, get my life back. It’ll take a good hour, I suppose, to get out of London, but with luck and dry weather I should be home before nine.

Another unsatisfactory encounter.

I recall little of the journey home. Ten minutes out of London and I remember that I left my mascara and tweezers and coconut Chapstick on the shelf in the en suite in Adam’s room. And I start crying again. And then I cannot stop crying. I simply
cannot
stop crying. I cry hot salty tears till my throat feels like gravel, curse Adam, curse me, curse Davina, curse marriage, curse the moon and the stars and the inky night sky. I feel alone in a way that I could never have imagined; a remnant of myself; a small ragged scrap.

But, somehow, I get there.

I finally slew into the drive, still sniffing, and yank the hot car to a shuddering stop. As well as all the cares in the world, I have returned, I remember, with a smelly Sainsbury’s plastic basket, which Rose has thoughtfully filled with some of Matt’s organic bounty; three cabbages, some parsnips, and about a million fat sprouts. My lot now, my prize. My foreseeable future. Making sprout soup, or hotpot, or sweet parsnip batons. Not love. Not with Adam. Not with
Adam.

After dumping the basket on the doorstep I am just returning to the car for my suitcase when I become aware of my front door opening and someone coming out of the house.

‘Ah,’ says a male voice. ‘
There
you are. Thank goodness!’

But it is not Dad, and not Ben and (as if it would be) not Adam.

The voice is joined by a body.

‘Good God!’ I say. ‘
Phil?
’