The Other Half

  She and Jamie were each on an island, separated by a strait of very hot water. She was desperate to get across to him, but couldn’t because he had the only boat and the water was scalding. She shouted and shouted for him to come and fetch her—she needed to pick up Nathan from school, where he would be waiting for her—but Jamie, surrounded by CDs chaotically scattered in the sand, was too busy listening on his headphones to hear.

  She woke in a cold sweat. The clock radio said 4:47, almost midnight New York time; and she really wanted—needed—to speak to him. She fumbled for her mobile on the bedside table and called him on speed dial; once more it went straight to voice mail, so she turned on the light and went and got the landline phone to ring the Paramount again; he was certain to be back in his room now, surely. She didn’t have to wait long for the operator to answer, and he said he’d try the room at once.

  Again it rang and rang.

  Perhaps he’s asleep, Maggie kidded herself, although it’s unlikely Jamie wouldn’t wake up to a phone ringing on his bedside table. Or maybe the operator dialed the wrong room by mistake. Oh, well.

  She put the receiver down without leaving a message and turned out the light. But it took her hours to fall asleep again, and as she lay tossing and turning, her thoughts tumbled this way and that, too.

  Is it my fault, she worried, am I doing something wrong? Am I being overly demanding? I always try not to be. Didn’t Jamie once say it was partly this that caused him to split up with Beth—and the fact I’m less volatile is one of the things he likes about me? So, if I’m not too pushy emotionally, have I been too overt sexually? Though I could scarcely be accused of coming on too strong—the raunchy underwear was a rarity. Maybe that’s the problem—I’m boring him, being too wifely, not enough of a lover, too wrapped up in Nathan. Perhaps I should have found a way to go to New York—sent Nathan to Fran’s or something. But how would he have gotten to school? Shere Infants is on our doorstep—it would be a lot to ask Fran to drive him from Leatherhead every day. Perhaps it’s Jamie’s muddle, then. Still, even if it is, I’m his wife. Shouldn’t I help him sort it out?

  As the questions mounted, so Maggie’s anxiety grew. By the time she phoned early the next morning Manhattan time, she was shaking with nerves. Thank God, he answered the phone in his room.

  “Jamie?”

  “Oh, hi.” Was it her imagination or did he sound particularly rough? By this point it was hard for her to separate paranoia from reality.

  “I was just calling to see if you were all right.”

  “Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Maggie felt as if she’d been slapped, but she gulped and continued, “It’s only I called you last night and you weren’t in your room, and it’s a few days since I’d heard from you.”

  “Oh, er, what time was that?”

  “I suppose about midnight at your end.”

  “Ah … Well, I turned off my mobile and unplugged the phone in my room. Sorry. I was so tired.”

  “Right.” Naturally, sleep was very important to him. How stupid of her to have been so thoughtless. “As long as you’re okay, then.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Maggie, I’m fine. Look, can I call you later? I should have been at the conference an hour ago but I got held up with calls and stuff—I’m running very late.”

  Maggie wanted a proper chat to make her feel better; instead he seemed to be hurrying her off the phone. Yet she was loath to say anything that might be perceived as negative, so gulped again and said, “Okay, if you prefer.”

  “It would be better if we could speak tonight.”

  “Fine. We’ll chat then.”

  “Yeah, bye, and say hi to Nathan.”

  As Maggie put down the phone, she had a sudden urge to cry. Don’t! she told herself, and swallowed again.

  She looked around the kitchen, hoping familiar surroundings might help ground her. She took in the fridge where she’d neatly stuck two of her favorite Nathan paintings, the dresser with its antique blue-and-white china, the stove with its traditional kettle on the burner, and the huge oak table she’d inherited from her grandmother, marked by decades of use … It was no good; she still felt anxiety churning in her stomach, so she decided to do something she found extremely hard: ask for help.

  Jean’s mobile barely rang once.

  “Hi, Jean, sorry to bother you. It’s Maggie. Is now a bad time?”

  “No, no, it’s fine—it’s nice to hear from you.” Although Maggie’s call must have been unexpected, Jean’s delight at hearing from her was in marked contrast to Jamie’s put-out tone. “Is something up?”

  Maggie sighed. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Mm?”

  “But I’m, well … We were talking about Jamie the other day…”

  “Ye-es…”

  “And I know you said I was being silly…”

  “I don’t think that’s what I said exactly, but go on.”

  “Anyway, the thing is, he’s still being a bit odd, and I’m rather worried about it.”

  “Odd in what way?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” Maggie wasn’t happy going into specifics, though she knew it would help Jean to understand. “Just more distant, really. He hasn’t been calling me like he normally would, and when I do speak to him he’s always in a hurry.”

  “Well, it is ever so frantic here, honey. You know what New York is like. It’s easy to get caught up in the mania of everything.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Maggie. “Still, it’s not only that. It’s how he was before. You remember I said things haven’t been that great for a while? I suppose it’s over the last couple of months it’s gotten noticeably bad. It’s meant I’m having real problems sleeping—especially since he’s been away.”

  “I see.”

  Maggie could tell that Jean was beginning to appreciate how distressed she was. She went on, “It’s not simply the child issue. I can’t put a finger on it, but he’s just not as communicative. He’s been busy at work, obviously, and I know when some people get stressed they withdraw into themselves, though with us, I’m the one who tends to do that. Jamie’s the expressive one, and he’s fine with Nathan. It’s me he’s different with.” She caught her breath. This was so hard to say. “I feel he’s not quite here for me, really, it’s as if he”—another gulp to hold back tears—“he, doesn’t think about me, or me and him, in the same way.”

  “I didn’t realize things were so serious.”

  “I was wondering,” Maggie hated to ask, “could you have that word with him, soon, possibly?”

  “Would you like me to?”

  “I think so. I wouldn’t normally involve you, but—”

  “I’ll talk to him today,” said Jean briskly.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. I offered, didn’t I? I’d like to do what I can to help. I’m very fond of you both and I hate to hear you so upset. I’ll see if I can find out what’s up.”

  “You don’t think it’s anything major, do you?” Maggie hoped Jean would say no, but was aware the picture she had painted was far from rosy.

  “I agree his behavior sounds out of character,” said Jean gently, “and if I can help in getting to the bottom of it, then I’m glad to. I very much doubt it’s anything to do with you, or you and him. It’s probably his stuff—some midlife crisis or something. Though if it is, you’ve got a lot going for you, and don’t ever forget that. You’ll get through this, I’m sure.”

  “Thanks, Jean. You’re a good friend.”

  “Oh, here’s another thought,” Jean added. “If you’re feeling anxious, perhaps it might be worth you having a chat with your GP?”

  “Really? What could he do?”

  “He could provide a sympathetic ear for starters. Is he nice?”

  “Yes, but … I wouldn’t want to waste his time. Still, I suppose he’s always been really helpful about Nathan.”

  “And you never know, maybe he can re
commend a short spell of counseling or something for both of you. Relate or whatever it’s called.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Why don’t you call today? I know most doctors are pushed for time, so ask for a double appointment, then he should manage more than five minutes with you—that’s what I’d do. After all, better to do it sooner rather than later.”

  “Before things get worse.”

  “Maybe worse, maybe better. Who knows? It can’t harm. And I speak from experience. Remember how helpful I found my doctor when I was having those anxiety attacks?”

  “True.” Maggie recalled that Jean’s fast-paced life had caught up with her at one point, and she’d become horribly panicked about traveling on the subway.

  “Anyway, I’d better go, my dear,” Jean said. “I’ve got some silly damn woman who’s probably trying to get through. I’ll call you later, when I’ve had a word. You take care now.”

  “I will. And thanks again.”

  Afterward, Maggie was aware that one issue she’d brought up on Sunday had remained unexpressed. She hadn’t felt able to ask Jean what she thought because she didn’t want to face talking about it, again. Jean hadn’t brought it up either. But that didn’t mean it didn’t exist, or wasn’t the key to Jamie’s behavior.

  Certainly, it’s the one thing that would explain everything, the emotional distance, the preoccupation, the absence, the lack of sexual interest … No, she squashed the thought immediately. She wasn’t going to give head space to that possibility.

  23

  Chloë woke, disoriented. Something was ringing, loud, and as she came to, she realized it was the phone on the bedside table. Even in her hungover state she knew it wouldn’t be wise to answer it.

  “James.” He was dead to the world. “You’d better get that.” She shook him.

  “Eeuaarghblugh…”

  “Phone!” She jammed the receiver to his ear. She could hear a woman’s voice.

  “Oh, hi.” At once he was more awake. “Of course I’m all right … Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Oh no, thought Chloë. James wouldn’t speak like that to most people. It must be Maggie. She cringed. Even though his wife sounded tinny down the line, it was the first time Chloë had heard her voice and sensed her presence as real. Maggie sounded worried.

  If being in bed with her husband didn’t make her feel bad enough, Chloë felt terrible—her head was thumping, her mouth was dry. Wanting to prolong the high of pleasure, she and James had consumed all the champagne and cocaine, and Chloë had hardly slept a wink. They’d been up till goodness knows when and, judging from her aching limbs, their sexual exploits had meant using muscles not regularly exercised at the gym.

  Plus I’ve been bullied by Jean into going to the conference, Chloë remembered. How typical of her not to consider vacations sacrosanct. Crikey, is that the time? I’d better phone her.

  Chloë was tempted to hide her head under the pillow until everything went away, but she didn’t want to listen to James talking to Maggie any longer, so she hauled herself out of bed.

  Seconds later he joined her in the bathroom.

  “That was quick,” she said, squeezing toothpaste onto her brush. It would take a thorough scouring session to remove the ghastly furry feeling in her mouth.

  James stood naked next to her at the basin, checking his face to see how rough he looked. “I asked her to call back later. I wasn’t really up for a chat.”

  “Me neither, but I’ve got to phone Jean.” Chloë rinsed her teeth with water and spat it into the sink.

  “Where’s she staying?”

  “The Algonquin.”

  “Jesus! You’re kidding?”

  “No. Why? Is it very posh?”

  “It’s not that it’s posh, it’s near!”

  “Oh, I didn’t know. Where is it?”

  “It’s on Forty-fourth Street, a bit farther east, but still.”

  “Oops! Guess we’ve been pretty lucky.”

  “Mmm.” Calming himself, James turned to stand at the commode to have a pee.

  I’m sure he’d have been too self-conscious to have done this previously, Chloë observed. We’re definitely more intimate as a result of this spell away together.

  Chloë showered at impressive speed, given her fragile state, and was rummaging in her suitcase for clean knickers when James emerged from the bathroom. He looked around.

  “This room’s in a right mess.”

  Chloë took it in: the empty champagne bottle and the rucked-up sheets were doubtless all in a day’s work for a hotel cleaner, but the cocaine-smeared marble tabletop, the discarded underwear, and the ripped stockings were best not shared with the world. And James’s attempt to escape from the boa had left black feathers everywhere; it was as if a crow had been massacred. She winced. “We’d better tidy up.”

  James picked up his watch from the bedside table. “Blast! I’m supposed to be having a breakfast meeting at the Millennium Broadway right now.”

  “How convenient,” she said, a touch sarcastically. “Who with?”

  “Adrienne Sugarman, the US special projects director.”

  “Better get your skates on. You go ahead—we can hardly arrive together anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Chloë couldn’t afford to waste time either, so she refrained from whining that he could lend a hand, and switched into efficient mode, emptying, picking up, folding, and putting away.

  Within minutes James was in his suit and poised at the door. “You’re an angel.” He kissed her shoulder.

  “I’ll see you there,” she said, turning to peck him on the cheek. That was almost wifely, she thought as she cleaned the table with toilet paper. Then again, given the cocaine smears she was wiping up, maybe not.

  * * *

  Luckily the conference center was just the other side of Times Square, so Chloë was able to finish making both the bedroom and herself presentable and still get there within the hour.

  As she pushed her way through the rotating doors, she was thankful for the Whistles suit. The tan skirt and jacket made her appear much more together than she felt.

  “Ah, Chloë!” She had barely had time to take in the polished marble, rich mahogany paneling, and sleek leather chairs of the Millennium Broadway lobby before Jean had breezed over, checking her watch pointedly. “You’ve made it. We’d better go in at once.”

  The Hudson Theatre was packed. However lousy she was feeling, Chloë had to admit that it was an impressive venue. It was a proper theater, with a circle and an upper circle. The floral plasterwork ceiling was breathtaking, and the stage, with its sweeping deep red velvet curtains, was enough to make Chloë hanker to be up there speaking herself.

  “Come on,” said Jean impatiently.

  They took two seats on the end of a row and Chloë scanned for James. As the lights dimmed for the presentation, she caught sight of him a few rows ahead, chatting animatedly with a group of older colleagues she didn’t recognize. My, she observed, they all look very important. Come to that, in his smart navy suit James does too … I thought I knew the work side of him, but this is another aspect of his life where I don’t have the full picture.

  * * *

  What a load of nonsense, Chloë griped inwardly as she sat listening to the chief executive banging on about company ethics and “publishing personalities” in accompaniment to her pounding headache. All this corporate stuff wasn’t her bag. And in spite of the air-conditioning, with so many people, the auditorium was very warm. She felt her attention drifting, drifting … her eyelids drooping, drooping …

  “Chloë!” Jean nudged her. “You could at least have the courtesy to stay awake!”

  “Sorry.” Chloë felt like a naughty schoolgirl, but the previous night was catching up with her. There was a pointy pen in the conference pack she’d been handed on the way in and she spent the next hour surreptitiously prodding her knees to stop herself from falling asleep again.

/>   At last they broke for a much-needed coffee. “Can I get you one?” she offered, hoping to make up for her unprofessional performance thus far.

  “That would be great,” said Jean. “I need to have a word with Jamie Slater about something personal, so I’ll meet you back here.”

  “Right.” Chloë’s heart beat fast at the mention of his name.

  “Black, no sugar.”

  “Fine,” said Chloë, but her brain was already racing ahead. Just what sort of “personal” matter does Jean want to discuss with James? Jean is one of Maggie’s closest friends, and Maggie seemed distressed when she’d phoned earlier. Maybe she’s found out about us, Chloë panicked. Maybe she’s told Jean! No, she reassured herself; Jean would never have been so normal just now. Even if she’d been sworn to secrecy, there was no way she’d have been able to hide something so major.

  She watched Jean make her way down the steps toward where James was sitting, and gently pull him away from his colleagues, as if she didn’t want anyone else to overhear what she was saying. Chloë watched his face. He appeared serious, and nodded, as if to show his tacit agreement. Jean carried on talking for quite a while.

  Whatever it’s about, it seems she had a lot to say, thought Chloë, flooded with guilt. This doesn’t look good. It doesn’t look good at all.

  24

  The doctor’s receptionist consulted the computer screen. “Mrs. Slater,” she muttered, moving the cursor down. “Ah, yes. Remarkably lucky we had a double appointment.” She eyed Maggie as if to say: You don’t appear sick; you should be grateful. “Go on up.”

  The practice occupied a tiny picture-postcard cottage opposite Nathan’s school. Ramshackle to the point of tumbling down, it was one of the many houses in the village to which a worn wooden sign DRIVE CAREFULLY OVERHANGING BUILDINGS applied. Yet despite their low-tech accommodation and the demands made on them, the three GPs dealt efficiently with reams of local people, and over the years of bringing Nathan, Maggie had found one doctor particularly sympathetic. Now she always asked for Dr. Hopkin.