There was a time, a very short time ago, when he would have taken the opportunity to slide his hands inside this girl’s ridiculously short shorts and grabbed whatever was on offer. Sharon smiled and snaked her hand round his testicles, squeezing them gently. Perhaps he was getting old, but he suddenly found the whole thing very depressing.
CHAPTER 23
“The children are all in bed,” I say as I shut the door to our bedroom. It isn’t strictly true. Tanya is in her room with the television blaring out, and this late on a Friday night she’s probably seeing all manner of things she shouldn’t, but at this point in time, I don’t care.
Ed has a small case open on the bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask, even though it’s quite obvious. “You can’t leave.”
“I’m not leaving, Alicia.” He is making a mess of folding some trousers. “You are.”
“What?”
“I want you out of here. Now.”
“Why?” My mouth wants to keep opening and closing even when it’s not saying anything. Ed doesn’t answer. “Why? This is ridiculous.”
“You might think so.” Ed looks up and his face is pinched with anger. “But I don’t.”
“Don’t be like this. You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Alicia. I have no idea who you are anymore.”
“Ed, we need to talk this through. Rationally. We can go back to the point where you brought Elliott home from the hospital and I’ll tell you exactly what happened.”
“I thought you said nothing happened.”
“Ed, this isn’t a courtroom. Don’t twist everything I say.”
He stops stuffing my clothes in the bag. “I think you’ve got a nerve, Alicia.”
“You’re overreacting,” I say calmly. “I know you’re hurt….”
“You can’t even begin to know how hurt I am.” His teeth are gritted and he hisses the words out between them.
I hug myself. Where has this come from? Ed and I have always been able to talk. Admittedly, our conversations of late have generally been over nothing more taxing than the choice of wallpaper, although we did have a major spat over whether or not we should have the all-singing, all-dancing, Georgian-style conservatory built. We didn’t speak for three days over that, and I won in the end when Ed capitulated and we had it built. We’re still paying it off on the mortgage, and now he spends more time in there than I do, but I wouldn’t dream of mentioning that it’s been a waste of money. “Ed, I have made a huge mistake.”
“On that we’re agreed,” he snaps.
“I want to put it right.” I advance on my suitcase and go to take the clothes back out and Ed slaps me. He slaps me. He slaps my hands away and they are stinging and I too am stung.
“It isn’t that simple, is it?”
I am speechless with shock and can only stare at the back of my hands, which bear bright beetroot-colored marks.
“I want you out of here, Alicia. Out of my house. I need to think about this, and I don’t want you near me. Or the children.”
“What!” I don’t know whether to cry or shout. “You’re throwing me out?”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Permanently?”
“I want some time alone. I think you might benefit from some too. You can reassess the situation in light of recent developments.” Ed sounds like he is giving a presentation at work to a room full of suits, not threatening to end our marriage.
“And where am I supposed to go?”
“That is entirely up to you,” Ed replies, and closes my case.
“Can’t I sleep on the sofa?”
He pushes the case across the bed toward me without a word. I pick it up and its weight drags me down. What’s left of my energy seeps out of me into the bedroom carpet. “Now you’re the one who’s making a big mistake,” I say quietly.
“Just go, Alicia.”
And I do. I’m not going to be able to talk any sense into Ed while he’s in this mood, and I can’t believe we’ve come to this situation so quickly. I’m shell-shocked at his lack of compassion, and it hasn’t even occurred to him to ask what might have led me to strike up a friendship, albeit unwise, with another man. Perhaps when he’s slept on it for a night, he’ll be ready to talk.
I walk down the stairs, not really knowing what I’m doing. My coat is on the end of the banister rail, and I don’t remember putting it there. I stop, put my case down and shrug it onto my shoulders. Ed is standing at the top of the stairs and I look up at him, ready to plead my innocence again, but he turns away from me, goes into the bedroom, our bedroom, and firmly shuts the door.
I pick up my case again, and now my stubborn streak kicks in even though I’m feeling pathetic. Let Ed stew for the night, and when he’s good and ready to listen then I’ll give him my explanation. I don’t have red hair for nothing. In a whoosh of unbridled ire, I am out the door and slam it so soundly behind me that its hinges reverberate and its glass shakes fearfully. I don’t care. I pull my collar up and, chin held high, stamp out into the cold, dark night.
CHAPTER 24
It’s raining. Lashing down. It’s also pitch-black and I’m standing outside Jemma’s flat, which is above her shop. The flat is also pitch-black, which is not generally considered a good sign if you’re looking for a warm welcome. No one is keeping my sister’s home fire burning.
In my temper, I have walked out without my handbag. In my handbag is my spare key to Jemma’s front door. And I have only just realized the enormity of this slight technical omission. In my coat pocket, I had exactly two pounds and seventy-five pence, which was change from the sandwiches that Christian and I bought for lunch at Kew. (And doesn’t that seem like a different lifetime?) I spent two pounds and fifty pence on my Tube ticket to get here because my car keys are also in my handbag, and I dropped twenty pence on the floor while I was searching for my money, which was picked up by a tramp whom I hadn’t the nerve to challenge for its return. So now I have the princely sum of five pence, no checkbook, no credit card, no mobile phone, no keys. In a fit of pique, I hurl my five-pence piece down the street, rendering myself totally penniless. Great job, Alicia.
Jemma’s shop is in Ladbroke Road, in quite a villagey bit just away from the main bustle of Notting Hill Gate. You Must Remember This…(great name, I know!) is in the middle of a small, select row. There are a couple of café bistro places, one looking distinctly more salubrious than the other, a Majestic wine outlet and two antique galleries, one selling gorgeous Chinese artifacts, which I daren’t go into because I’d come out several hundred pounds poorer. The parade also has one of those quaint old-fashioned cab ranks complete with a British racing green hut and a queue of shiny idle cabs parked outside, and I can’t begin to imagine what might go on inside. The only thing that spoils the vista is a huge concrete tower block of flats looming over the top of it.
Jemma’s is one of a rash of nostalgic and retro clothes shops in the area. It’s a strange place, full of stuff that my mother still has in her wardrobe. Oxfam tat with Harvey Nichols price tags as far as I’m concerned. So what if they’re 1960s designer labels? They’re horrible! And why, oh why, would anyone want to wear cast-offs from the 1970s? Even if it does bear a Halston or an Ossie Clark moniker? For me, that was the time that taste forgot and it’s best that we forget it too. My daughter has just bought her first pair of hot pants, which, twenty-five years later, are back in fashion for the third, or probably the fourth, time, and I shudder to think that I ever went out dressed like that. Jemma says I have no soul, but clearly her customers do, because she makes a small fortune despite her astronomical rent. To give Jemma her due, the bulk of her stock is pure vintage—there are very few wide lapels and flared trousers on view. Her chic, crowded rooms groan with rails of elegant beaded gowns from the 1930s and 1940s, which, in terms of style, I’m much happier to relate to. She says her customers want to look individual and creative in their dress, but that sounds suspiciously like
sales-speak to me. Who would know, apart from another hip and enlightened “classic” clothing fan, that you weren’t just wearing something you’d dragged out of a charity shop for a fiver? I would rather look new, but perhaps it’s me that’s missing the point. And there’s no doubting my sister’s commitment, as she devotes every waking moment into making it a success. If only she were as attentive to her relationships. But then, standing here in the pissing-down rain because my husband’s thrown me out, I’m a fine one to talk.
I rap at Jemma’s door once more, and the thought that I’m getting nowhere fast flashes through my brain again. I huddle into her strip of doorway so that I’m getting merely drenched rather than totally drowned. I thought Ed said my sister had come back from Prague, but maybe she was phoning from there? There isn’t a single sign of life. This place definitely has the look of its owner being terminally out.
I consider breaking in, but due to the value of the stock the shop has more alarms than a nuclear-power plant and, no doubt, half of the Metropolitan Police force would descend upon me, because policemen are never around when you want one and arrive in droves when you don’t.
I can feel my hair tightening into ringlets, and I’m probably sporting the same hairstyle as Lenny Kravitz by now. I have to do something! I could go to my parents’ house. They live miles away in Harpenden, but I could hail a cab and get them to fork out for it and then ask Ed to pay them back. It would cost a small fortune and serve him right! But they would worry terribly if I turned up in the middle of the night, as they’ll have had their Horlicks hours ago and will be well into the land of Nod by now. They’re that sort of people. Also, turning up there would make this whole stupid disagreement seem so much worse than it is. My mother would then spend the rest of her life thinking that we have a shaky marriage. My heart sinks to my sodden shoes. Perhaps we do.
I search my pockets again for any sign of cash, noting ruefully that my emergency ten-pound note is safely secreted in the little pocket of my handbag, which is also safely in my kitchen at home. Perhaps I need to put an emergency ten-pound note underneath the inner soles of all my shoes if I plan on being stupid on a regular basis. I would agree with you, at this juncture, that my emergency situation procedures could do with an extensive review.
I cannot in any event return home. That would be just too humiliating for words. I would rather huddle down in Jemma’s doorway for the night. Lots of people sleep rough these days, and it’s only for one night. I could head toward…er…somewhere that has arches and look for a spare cardboard box. I look at the torrential rain and wonder how on earth these poor unfortunate people manage. I feel on the verge of tears. I have a beautiful home and a soft, comfy bed. Ed cannot be so cruel as to leave me out on the streets. I won’t let him do this to me, however much I have to beg.
Just as I am about to give up hope and slink back to the marital home, penitent, my icy fingers fold around a business card. La Place Velma. It has Christian’s address on the back, and it shines in my hand like a beacon under the streetlight. God, he lives just around the corner. If I had a stone, I could throw it there. I could be there in five minutes. Less. I wish I had my phone, then I could ring him. I know, I know, I know. I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking it too. He’s the last person in the world I should contact. But what else am I to do? At the very least, he might give me a corner of his floor, or a cup of tea, or be able to lend me some money so that I can get a room for the night. And didn’t he say that I should drop in any time I was in the area? I sigh as a big splat of rain splashes onto the address and smears the ink. I just don’t expect he thought that it would be at one o’clock in the morning.
CHAPTER 25
Ed lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. His clothes were scattered on the floor in the way Ali hated most, and he was wearing just his boxer shorts. He had his arms crossed behind his head on the pillow and to the untrained eye he looked relaxed, but wasn’t. There was a knot of tension in his stomach as if he’d had a bad curry, and the crick in his neck was reaching osteopath-visiting proportions. Every beat of his heart thundered through his body.
He’d been meaning to decorate this bedroom for ages, but as with a million other nonessential domestic duties, had never got round to it. The favorite excuse was time, but the overriding factor was lack of inclination. It would have been far easier to pay someone and keep Ali happy, but his motto was always: If you’re going to make a mess of doing something, you might as well do it yourself rather than pay someone else to make a mess of it for you. And making a mess seemed to be his speciality at the moment.
Ed moved his gaze from the ceiling to the alarm clock, which blinked digitally at him in a very accusing way. Ali had been gone for ages. Real ages. Not storm-round-the-block-in-a-fit-of-temper ages. But gone-a-long-way-and-doesn’t-appear-to-be-coming-back ages.
What an arse he’d been, ranting on like some sulking schoolboy when there could be some perfectly good explanation. Why hadn’t he listened? At least he should have extended his wife that little courtesy as she protested her innocence. There was no way Ali could be having an affair. Even if she had the inclination. There was no way she had the time. She was either at work or doing something with the kids. It didn’t leave many opportunities for romping round sordid hotels or whatever one did these days in pursuit of extramarital excitement. Ed looked at the Kew Gardens ticket for two. That didn’t sound like the perfect venue for a clandestine romp. But then, there were a lot of bushes.
He wished Ali would come back and they could talk about it. Ed was sure that she’d gone to her sister’s flat, but he’d tried Jemma’s number and it had been switched, intractably, to answerphone. He could imagine it now—they’d be halfway through their second bottle of wine and having a good old whinge about men. Him in particular. They were like two peas in a pod at times like these. Except all the previous “times like these” had been when her sister’s boyfriends—in various states of marital entanglement—had left and Ali had rushed to the rescue. Undoubtedly, her sister was now reciprocating.
Ed looked at the phone. She could at least ring so that he wouldn’t worry, but then Ali knew that he wouldn’t sleep until she rang, so she was probably exacting some minuscule revenge by making him sweat. And sweating he was. It was a muggy night. The rain was still heavy, but it was bringing no freshness with it. He’d had to close the bedroom window, because the curtains were starting to get wet and he knew Ali would give him an ear-bashing if she came home to damp drapery. This was all the fault of Harrison Ford and the National Health Service, both of whom had left him feeling, in their own way, unsettled, restless and disgruntled. If he hadn’t had his mind filled with fantasy longings of life in Hollywood, then perhaps he wouldn’t have been so brackish with Ali when she’d stepped out of her allotted box to find a little fun.
The phone rang and he snatched it up.
“Hello?”
“Is there any particular reason you left me sitting at the Groucho for three hours like a lemon?”
Ed let out the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. “Orla.”
“That’s me.”
Ed rubbed his face as he clamped the phone to his ear with his shoulder. “I forgot. I’m so, so sorry.”
“You forgot?” Her voice was tense. “That’s not awfully flattering, Ed.”
“Believe me, if you knew what’d been going on here today, you’d forgive me.” Ed suddenly felt very weary, the weight of a thousand tons of responsibility crushing down on his shoulders, and he wanted to weep, howl into the wind, rent his soul and purge his lungs of anguish with a plaintive, primal scream. Instead, he sighed a meaningful sigh.
Her voice softened. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m having a domestic crisis.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“In my life or for ringing?”
“Both,” Orla said, failing to recognize his attempt at humor.
“Yes to the first. Not parti
cularly to the second.”
There was a weighty pause before Orla spoke again. “Do you want me to come over?”
“I don’t think so.”
Again an uncomfortable silence. “You know I’m always here for you, Ed.”
He did now. “Thanks,” he replied.
“Will you call me tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Ed said, without really knowing why.
“Look.” Orla paused again, and all Ed wanted to do was hang up, curl up and try to go to sleep. “You only have to ask and I’d do anything,” she said. “I care deeply for you. You know that, don’t you?”
He hadn’t previously but, again, he did now. “Yes,” he said. “And thanks, Orla. I’m really sorry about tonight. It went straight out of my head.” And despite being on the phone, he made a straight-out-of-my-head type gesture. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised.
“I might just hold you to that,” she said, laughing slightly. “Good night, Ed.”
“Good night, Orla.”
She hung up, and before Ed could contemplate just what making it up to Orla might conceivably involve, there was a heart-stopping, ear-piercing, gut-wrenching scream coming from the bathroom, and he shot off his bed and raced at full pelt across the landing.
Elliott was standing in the bathroom in the dim glow of the shaving light which they always left on because both boys were afraid of the dark. Why was that? They were two perfectly healthy, nurtured middle-class children. Why did they imagine unseen terrors that waited for them just around each darkened corner? What had happened to cause that? And why was it that the things that lurked in darkened corners of your adult psyche were the ones that you were able to ignore the best of all?