A Surrey State of Affairs (11 page)

Natalia was cleaning in the study when I made my discovery. I gasped, so she came over to investigate. When she saw the page, she got quite upset too. The girl obviously feels for me: perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh on her.

Now that I’ve calmed down, I have a dilemma to contemplate. I’m not sure whether to simply shut the images of that smile and that cleavage out of my mind and pretend that nothing happened, or have it out with Jeffrey, or set myself up on Facebook and “cyberstalk” him. In any case, I shall not post Rupert’s dating profile for the time being. I do not believe in omens, of course, but you will agree that the timing is not auspicious.

  
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 26

Today I took a long hard look in the mirror, which is something I’ve tended to avoid doing since the age of thirty-six. I took a deep breath. I stared at my reflection; my reflection stared back. The eyes are still acceptable, green, wide-set, with the almond shape that Jeffrey used to admire. It is around, above, and below the eyes that matters deteriorate somewhat. There are crow’s feet. There is a small crease between my eyebrows. There are lines connecting my nose to either side of my mouth that no rejuvenating night cream has been able to erase. Moving downward, my décolletage has the texture of an overripe peach. Why were there no warnings about sunscreen in the Provence villas of the 1970s? Farther south, my figure is rather good for my age, a size 12 that can be upholstered into something approaching svelteness with the appropriate underwear. All in all, the effect is much like my favorite armchair: an elegant silhouette, but frayed around the edges. I can’t help but feel that this is how it should be for a woman of my age and experience. It is the spectacle of “mature” women like Madonna cavorting about in gym shorts that is abnormal, not a little natural decline. I do not wish to get my skin hoiked up so I resemble a startled cat, or Botox my forehead into bongo drum tautness, or wear a leotard. And yet, just every now and then, I would like to make Jeffrey say “phwoar.”

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Does he see the young girl he married, slight, smooth-cheeked, or does he see the slack-jawed old woman waiting to get out? Does he even see me at all?

  
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 27

Bell ringing provided a welcome distraction from my musings last night. I think many women would be happier if they turned to a rousing communal activity rather than magazine questionnaires to lift their self-esteem. As soon as I set foot in the belfry, Reginald bustled over to tell me that David had thrown his Arabic checked scarf in the composting bin and renounced Islam for good. Had elements of the Koran troubled him? I asked. Had he belatedly realized that Jesus Christ was the way, the truth, and the light? Reginald shook his head and said that David had been unable to locate a halal barbecue chicken pizza.

Gerald was there, sans Poppy, looking red-eyed and introspective. To break the silence, I mentioned something along the lines of here we are again and doesn’t time fly, and he replied with a trembling voice that I looked more radiant with every week that passed. After yesterday, I could have kissed him, albeit after swabbing him with disinfectant first. He really is too good a man to waste. It’s just a shame that Miss Hughes couldn’t be there last night because she was laid up with her bunions.

  
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 28

Church Flowers today, and I was a little anxious in case Pru wanted to stab me in the back with the pruning shears. As it happened, her behavior could not have been more different from our last encounter. She came up to me, placed a small, limp hand on my shoulder, and said, “Constance, Ruth has told me everything. You are so brave. Both you and poor, dear Rupert.” She
blinked at me, displaying puffy eyelids coated in lilac shadow, smiled, shook her head, and passed me five stems of hothouse peace lilies. What on earth was she referring to? Had she been drinking the flower-food sachets? However, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I decided to simply smile graciously and ignore the inquisitive glances of the other ladies. The Lord, and Pru, move in mysterious ways.

9:05 P.M.

I have telephoned Rupert’s landline, left a message on the answerphone of his mobile, and sent him six text messages, all to no avail. What is he playing at? What has he said, or done, to Ruth to make Pru behave in such a strange way? Does he not realize that I am being gnawed at from within by suspense? Even Jeffrey noticed I was jumpy when I dropped the salt cellar into my soup and splattered him with winter vegetables. I hope Rupert makes contact soon. It is not as if he has any reason to avoid me.

  
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 29

At five o’clock this morning I awoke from a dream in which Jeffrey was James Bond, I was Miss Moneypenny, and that
Blue Peter
hostess was emerging from a turquoise sea in a string bikini. I sat behind my desk, prim and powerless, as Jeffrey walked out the door and onto the beach without a backward glance. When I woke up I noticed that there were little red indents in the palms of my hands from where I had dug in my nails. There was only one thing to do. I had to find out what Jeffrey was thinking. I had to join Facebook.

As soon as Jeffrey had left for work and Natalia had gone to the supermarket, I shut myself in the study and typed “Facebook”
into Google. I followed the instructions to register, pausing when it asked me to select an image. I was torn between wanting to use a holiday photo of myself ten years ago, an image of the queen, an elegant swan, an owl, apple blossom, a church spire, or Miss Moneypenny wearing a pencil skirt suit. However, the dilemma was resolved for me when I realized I didn’t have the faintest idea how to add any sort of picture. I called Rupert, and Sophie, but as neither answered I was forced to accept the default image of a royal-blue question mark, which hardly cuts a dash. At least the rest of the process was easier. For my relationship status I put
married
; for religious views,
Church of England
; and for politics,
Conservative, but Kenneth Clarke, please, not David Cameron.

Once I had finished registering, it helpfully asked me if I wished to look up any friends. I am not sure if “friend” is the correct term to describe a husband of thirty-three years, but I typed in Jeffrey’s name, and, sure enough, among all the other unknown and inferior Jeffrey Hardings, there was his little 007 picture. My heart jumped to see it. Being rather new to all this, I was not quite sure exactly what would happen when I got to this stage, but I had presumed that I would be able to access all of Jeffrey’s information, find out who his “friends” were, which fan clubs he had joined, how he described his religious beliefs, how many semi-naked television presenters he was adulating. To my intense disappointment, I could do none of this. The only options were to “add as friend” or “send a message.” After hesitating for a few moments, I clicked on the former. It told me a “friend request” had been sent. Will he say, for a second time, “I do”? Will he be pleased to meet me in cyberspace? Will he be angry? Will he see my name pop up on his screen and feel a sudden stab of shame at his “phwoooooaaar’s”?

While I pondered these questions, I decided to look for my
children too. There were a number of Rupert Hardings, none obviously my son, although one, which featured a picture of Oscar Wilde, did claim to be in Milton Keynes. This could be my Rupert: he always loved English at school.

It was, alas, easier to find Sophie. She was instantly recognizable, wearing a pink bikini and a sombrero, with a cocktail in one hand and a can of whipped cream in the other, sitting astride what appeared to be a rugby player’s shoulders. I sent her a message saying
Never allow anyone to take a picture of you that you would not want your mother to see. Love, Mum.
I felt it best not to befriend either her or the potential Rupert. Children do have very firm ideas about privacy these days.

After that I managed to track down my friend Bridget—who had a very glamorous picture, a side-on shot of her with waved hair and crimson lipstick, smoking a cigarette through an old-fashioned holder—then I joined a group of “fans” of the National Trust and another for parrot owners, called Paratweets. When I heard the scrunch of tires on the gravel indicating that Natalia was back from Waitrose, I was amazed to see how much time had passed. Now I can understand how people can turn into Internet addicts and squander their whole lives wandering aimlessly across the Web. With that in mind, I turned the computer off and went down to help Natalia unpack. Then I went back upstairs, turned the computer back on, and updated my “status” to
is annoyed that the housekeeper has once again forgotten the Serrano ham.

  
SATURDAY, MARCH 1

At last, a telephone call from Rupert. “Hi, Mum,” he said, in a cheerful but brittle voice.

“What did you tell her?” I demanded.

There was a small silence, and then he said, “Mum, you’ve got to understand. She was freaking me out. She pushed a parcel of homemade cookies through the letter box. She waited outside my flat, hiding behind the recycling bins. She was wearing a mohair beret.”