A Rural Affair (21 page)

I did try, though. To push. ‘
He
wanted out!’ I said shrilly, knowing my nostrils were flaring and my knuckles white as I gripped my handbag on my lap. ‘
He
only stayed for the children? Oh no, that was me! I was only there because I thought they were so young, so vulnerable.’
My throat filled with tears. I gulped them down. ‘I was the one who wanted to go – always!’

Even as I was protesting, part of my mind was wondering
how often he’d heard this sort of thing. Sam, the divorce lawyer. Two people slugging it out unattractively, over children,
money. But once I’d started, I felt compelled to finish.

‘I was the one who felt trapped. How dare he say he stayed with me for form’s sake! Out of duty! Ask my friends, ask anyone;
they’ll all tell you. God, those bitches,’ I seethed. ‘I can’t believe my own in-laws, my children’s
grand
mother, their aunt, Aunt Cecilia – Christ!’ I could hear hysteria rising in my voice as I tumbled over my words.

‘I can see that’s very hard to reconcile.’

‘Very hard? Very
hard
!’

I wanted a cigarette badly and I hadn’t smoked for years. Instead, I twisted a strand of hair rapidly around my finger, another
ancient method of restoring composure. I wondered what Phil had said to his mother and sister. Phil, who could do no wrong.
Wondered if he’d told them I was a cold fish who gave him no comfort. Oh, I could picture the whole thing. Could see Phil
taking Emma to Kent in her smocky white top, looking very different to the girl his mother and sister had met for lunch in
London, a business lunch, to discuss their finances, in her power suit and heels.

‘You remember Emma?’ he’d have said, with no awkwardness. Phil didn’t do awkward; he had a towering sense of his own self-importance.
His own entitlement. And Emma, with a bunch of flowers perhaps, would execute her practised, anxious smile.

‘Hello. How lovely to see you again. What a pretty house.’

Later, after coffee, Phil would confide in his mother, whilst Cecilia and Emma took a walk in the garden. This girl had brought
some much-needed sunshine into his life. Much comfort. He’d never leave me, of course, never. He knew where his duty lay.
But this was the real thing. True love. And
Marjorie would nod, touch his hand. Her poor boy. Trapped in a loveless marriage. Of course, she’d always known it was a mistake.
That dreadful father. She’d shudder. Whisky on his breath. That house, which she’d heard about from Phil. A slum, almost.
Oh no, she wouldn’t condemn Phil. Instead, she’d say later to her daughter: poor boy, he deserves some happiness, and how
like him to insist he can’t leave Poppy and the children. So little happened in Marjorie and Cecilia’s lives, I could see
them thoroughly enjoying the subterfuge. Knowing something I didn’t; having a secret. It would exact a certain kind of revenge,
which, let’s face it, was always best eaten cold. And they wanted revenge. They’d felt so robbed, you see, when we hadn’t
gone to Kent to live, but had settled near my father instead. My friends. Their fury at the time had been unnerving.

‘But we
assumed
!’ Marjorie had spat at me in her immaculate kitchen, tight-lipped, spectacles glinting. ‘Cecilia and I had always assumed
that you’d come here, to Ashford. That you’d stay near the village!’

And look after us, was what they meant.

But I’d put my foot down. And at the time I’d thought it the greatest expression of my fiancé’s love for me. The greatest
capitulation, probably. One he’d immediately regretted.

‘Jesus,’ I muttered, only half to myself.

‘It certainly is a very unusual situation, I must say,’ Sam said uncomfortably.

I glanced up. Yes, of course it was. And as suddenly as the door to my fury had flown open, it slammed shut and another door
gaped. Embarrassment. In it roared. This man, this lawyer, Sam Hetherington, didn’t know me. Not really. He didn’t know Marjorie
or Cecilia, either. They could be quite delightful. They certainly had delightfully old-fashioned-sounding
names. They could be sweet, gentle souls, sending anxious letters from Rose Cottage, the house on the letterhead. And I could
be simply ghastly. With my powdered face and laddered tights. My overdone scent. My flirtatious manner. It seemed to me yet
another door closed too. Softly, but firmly. Eyes glittering, I turned and stared out of the window at the day. It was still
warm and clement, lovely for October, but the breeze through the open window seemed languid and heavy, whereas this morning
it had been sweet with possibility.

‘And I’m afraid mother and daughter are also intending to make a claim. Join the ugly rush.’

I turned back to him. Nothing surprised me now. ‘Oh? On what basis?’ My voice came from elsewhere, detached.

‘On the basis that apparently your husband said he would provide for them in their dotage.’

‘They’re not in their dotage.’

‘No, but neither of them works, living as they do off your late father-in-law’s pension. But it wasn’t index-linked and is
running out. Your husband knew that, and to that end intended to make a will which would be inclusive of them. That was why
he’d gathered so much life insurance before he was killed.’

I regarded him steadily for a moment. This rang true. The only thing so far. Phil
had
gathered an unusual amount of life insurance. For a reason. I cleared my throat. ‘Do they have a case?’

‘In my opinion, no. You, as the wife and mother of his children, have rightly inherited his sole estate, as, I might add,
most wives do.’

‘But they’ll fight it? I mean, if I refuse?’

‘Oh, they’ll fight it.’

‘Then we’ll fight back.’ Yesterday I’d have willingly given
them some. But not now. Not when they’d so publicly humiliated me. ‘Write back and tell them so immediately. Tell them I won’t
part with a penny.’

He made a quiescent face. ‘Could do, but that’s a fairly aggressive step. And you want to avoid slugging it out, particularly
in court, which is heinously expensive. Although it might, eventually, be inevitable.’

Court. A vision of me trembling in the dock of an oak-panelled Old Bailey sprang to mind. Twelve stony-faced men and women
staring accusingly at me. Cecilia and Marjorie in the gallery, weirdly wearing the hats they’d worn at my wedding, complete
with quivering bird on Marjorie’s, except it was no longer a peacock, but a bird of prey. Their barrister, a hatchet-faced
man, was cross-examining me: ‘
Were
you a good wife, Mrs Shilling? Were you?’ Silence. The judge reached for his black cap.

‘Right,’ I said miserably. ‘So … what would you advise?’

The fight had gone out of me and I felt like writing out a cheque. Three, actually. One to each of them. Emma, Marjorie and
Cecilia. Oh no, four. I probably owed Sam too. Just leave me alone.

‘I would advise doing nothing at this stage and see whether they proceed. They haven’t actually issued proceedings, just written
a couple of letters. Let’s see if it’s all hot air.’

‘Yes. Fine,’ I agreed.

I liked doing nothing. I was a big wait-and-see girl. My entire married life, it occurred to me, had been like that. Wait
and see what happens. It might not be so bad. It was. Always. Why did divorce get such a bad name? Surely what I’d done was
as bad? This ghastly acceptance? Surely it would have been braver to leave? Something small and hard and angry formed within
me. I needed it to grow. I needed to take a steer on my life, that
much was clear. I couldn’t let these Shillings walk all over me. I had to see them off, not just pathetically scramble clear
of them occasionally, as I had done for years, dodging their blows.

‘Cup of tea?’ Sam asked quietly. I obviously looked very shocked.

‘Please.’

This small kindness touched me, and as he went to the door to ask Janice if she wouldn’t mind, I had to blink very hard.

He came back and sat down again; said one or two comforting things about people making threats all the time, and whilst it
sounded dramatic, it was quite another thing to employ a solicitor, which they hadn’t yet done. Hadn’t put money where their
mouths were. And anyway, even if lawyers were involved, it was often sorted out via correspondence.

‘I won’t have to see them?’ I asked, my voice coming from somewhere distant as Janice came in with the tea.

‘Not unless it goes to court, but we’ve already decided to try to avoid that at all costs.’

I nodded. Sipped my tea as he chatted, leaning forward with his arms on his desk. He offered me a biscuit, which I took but
couldn’t eat, and even though I felt numb, a bit other-worldly, I couldn’t help noticing the elbow of his suit was very worn.
The right one, the telephone-propping one, and the handle of his black case beside his chair was broken and tied with binder
twine. Phil wouldn’t have been seen dead in a jacket like that or with a tatty briefcase, and I thought how much I liked Sam
for it; and for somehow knowing I’d needed tea and a chat before I took to the high street.

Finally, when it became apparent that I couldn’t decently, or even indecently, take up any more of his time, that I’d been
in his office for a good forty minutes and we both knew
his next appointment had been sitting outside a while because Janice had popped in and told us so, I got to my feet. I felt
warmer from the tea, if a little trembly.

‘You going to be all right?’ It was said briskly, but there was no doubting the concern. God, he was nice. But then most people
were, weren’t they? I’d just been unlucky.

‘Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you. And thank you for your advice.’

It was a shame I saw him surreptitiously consult his watch as he walked me to the door. He smiled and we said goodbye.

Outside in the street, something made me glance back up at his building, my eyes finding his window on the second floor. But
if I was expecting to see him standing there watching me go down the street, hands in pockets, a wistful expression on his
face, I was disappointed.

‘I can’t believe it.’ Angie’s mouth, painted fuchsia pink, dropped open in disbelief. She left it there for dramatic emphasis.

‘I know. Neither can I. Well, no, I can, actually,’ I said miserably.

‘But what sort of man does that?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Ropes his entire family into his extramarital affair and asks
them to conspire against his wife!’

‘Phil,’ I said quietly. ‘A Phil sort of man.’

‘And – and what sort of family,’ she blinked, ‘agrees! Colludes with their son? And his mistress? Gives the relationship their
seal of approval!’

I squirmed. ‘Marjorie and Cecilia,’ I said mechanically, noticing Jennie wasn’t saying anything.

She had her back to us. Strapped into a long white pinny at her Aga, she was stirring a vast vat of boeuf bourguignon ready
to be put into Tupperware dishes and thence local freezers. Angie and I were at her kitchen table. Angie had popped in to
retrieve a pashmina she’d lent and wanted to wear to a charity luncheon. She’d found me, pale, hunched and in mid-flow to
Jennie. Naturally the story had to be retold. And I would, of course, have told Angie eventually, but there was a definite
hierarchy. I might have waited until I was more poised. No chance of that now. And Angie’s incredulity was hard to bear, reflecting,
as I felt it did ineluctably,
on me. Jennie too had been shocked, but she could believe it. She knew Phil, and she knew Marjorie and Cecilia.

‘Phil could do no wrong in their eyes,’ I explained wearily, wondering if I’d have to explain these Shillings for ever. Wondering
if I was going to make a career of it.

‘They clearly don’t know the
difference
between right and wrong!’ Angie exploded. ‘And this – this Emma chit – I thought she came to see you? Said she didn’t want
anything?’

‘She did. But now the will’s been published she’s realized Phil was probably on the verge of making provision for her, as
he was for Marjorie and Cecilia.’ I shrugged. ‘I suppose she feels entitled.’

‘Entitled, my arse!’ Angie stormed. She’d got up from the table and strutted angrily to the window, arms folded. Her eyes
were bright, her face suffused with indignation. A few months ago Angie’s beautiful face had been terribly drawn, terribly
wretched. There was at least some light to it now. Was it a relief, I wondered, not to be quite so firmly in the eye of the
storm? For the baton to have passed to me? Not to be the one everyone felt sorry for? Not that she’d relish my misfortune
– Angie was a sweet girl – but nobody wanted to be the unlucky one for ever. The one who had the worst time of it.

‘Don’t give her a penny,’ she warned, turning on her four-inch heel to face me abruptly. ‘Not a penny.’

I nodded, mute.

‘And what sort of a man is that bloody organized?’ she asked. ‘Starts to tie up his estate like that, in his thirties?’

‘The sort of man who has already bagged his spot in the churchyard,’ said Jennie without turning, still stirring. Then she
did glance back. ‘He would have made it his business, wouldn’t he, Poppy? Not to leave any loose ends.’

I nodded again. It was all so embarrassing. So … demeaning. ‘I can’t believe I made such a catastrophic mistake in marrying
him,’ I said softly. I wanted to go on to say, ‘Such a lack of judgement,’ but knew my voice would wobble. Had I been all
there, I wondered, six years ago?

Angie studied her nails, which were long and red, and Jennie kindly resumed her inspection of her casserole, which she’d done
for some time.

‘I was thinking that today, at the solicitor’s,’ I said, half aloud and half to myself, when I was sure my voice wouldn’t
falter. ‘Thinking: what must he think of me, marrying a man like that?’

‘Who cares what your bloody solicitor thinks!’ snorted Angie. ‘The important thing is not to give those grasping witches a
penny. It’s all yours, Poppy, all of it.’

‘And if fighting for money goes against the grain,’ added Jennie, waving her wooden spoon at me, knowing I had a lot of Dad
in me, ‘do it for Clemmie and Archie.’

Yes, that helped. For them. I’d already told myself that was the way forward. That might propel me. But sustaining the momentum
would be nip and tuck. I wondered what I’d think if I was Emma. If the man I’d loved for four years had provided for me, would
I want it? Feel entitled? Perhaps I would.