Born of Woman (40 page)

He lowered the infant in, covered him with earth, tucked the soil around him like a blanket. The child would be warm and cosy there, sheltered from the wind. He removed all traces of his digging, sprinkled mulch on top and pine needles, tried to make the ground look virgin.

Everything was safe now, Hester a virgin when she married, he her only child. He wished he had some white and maiden flowers to celebrate his mother—snowdrops, lilies—fusing death and innocence. There were no flowers nor wreaths at all, no mourners, save himself. He bowed his head, felt his tears fall stupid through his hands.

‘Beloved son,' he whispered. ‘Beloved son.'

‘Smooth landing,' smiled Jonathan, as the BAC 111 touched down at Heathrow Airport.

Jennifer's nails were digging into the armrest. How could anything be smooth? She had slept with a man she hardly even knew, enjoyed it, relished it, spent half the night repeating it—standing, lying, kneeling, adding variations—in the bath, in the shower, on the floor, in front of the silvered mirrors in Oz's studio. Two of her, three of her in the mirrors, all sluts, all faithless adulterous wives. She had always thought a first affair would be something of a failure, a fumbling furtive thing riddled with embarrassment and nerves. Not at all. She had behaved like a professional whore.

The sixty-minute plane journey had seemed to last for days, Oz still throbbing under her as they hit a patch of turbulence or dived out of an air pocket. She was sore between her legs. She had been like a starving woman who had suddenly seen food again and crammed everything in sight into her mouth, her throat, her … She and Oz had hardly paused till dawn came like a spoilsport chaperon and dragged her back to her cold unslept-in bed. She had crept past Jonathan's room, heard him already awake and running taps.

She dared not glance at the crowded Heathrow news-stands in case the whole affair had reached London before she had and was already polluting all the papers. Oz was a photographer, a newsman. It might all have been a trap—some hidden camera recording her adultery.

Jonathan was hovering with the cases. ‘Right, I'll just get the car. We should be back in Putney in well under an hour.'

Putney. She wasn't ready yet. Hadn't washed the sex off. Yet somehow, she wanted to keep it there, wet and hot and smarting. Oz had reminded her that her body still existed. Why should Lyn keep snuffing it out again, leaving her cold and unkindled like a summer fire?

The house looked grave, inscrutable. No boy or bike in the garden, no angry Lyn sulking outside a still locked and bolted door.

‘Won't you come in for a coffee?' she asked, as Jonathan helped her out of the car.

‘No, really, Jennifer. It's sweet of you, but I must get up to the office. Thank you for the trip. I enjoyed it thoroughly.'

‘Thank
you
.'

Twin smiles. They had spent hours and hours together in the last few weeks, but never got beneath the smiles. Jonathan was her chaperon, yet did he even guess she'd been screwing with a stranger half the night? Were there teeth-marks on her neck, pock-marks on her soul?

Her own smile faded as she turned to face the house, walked through the unlocked door—moving from sunshine into gloom, smelling the faint musty odour of the pot-pourri which Anne bought from Liberty's every Christmas.

‘Lyn?' she called. Must find him first, reassure him, reassure herself. She could bury last night, then, make it just a fantasy. And yet she was almost scared to see her husband, scared of his suspicion which for the first time had some grounds, impatient of his moods and his demands. For the last few months, the media world had knelt to her. It wasn't easy to return to a man who, instead of homage, laid grudges at her feet.

‘Lyn!' she called again.

No answer. Couldn't he at least come down to greet her, help her with her luggage? And where were the boys—and Susie? They must have heard the car. Susie should have rocketed in by now, crushed her in a bear-hug. Unless she was hugging Lyn, instead—cocooned on a couch with him, making up their quarrel.

‘Lyn? Susie? I'm back. Is no one in?'

No one. She picked up a handful of pot-pourri and let it trickle through her fingers—dry and faded dust which had once been full-blown roses, glowing gold and scarlet among glossy leaves and thorns. She could hardly be jealous of Susie, when she had traces of Oz still clinging to her body like dirty underwear.

She was jealous.
And
resentful. On her publicity tours, people mobbed and feted her as soon as she opened a door. She had longed for peace and privacy, yet somehow, now she had it, she missed the roar of approbation. Jennifer Winterton was used to welcoming committees, not silent empty halls. She walked upstairs, to try the upper floors. Three boys' bedrooms ownerless, her and Lyn's room chillingly bare and tidy, the bed unslept in, Lyn's shoes gaping like two slack and empty mouths. She went on up to the tiny attic room where Susie slept, the only part of the house which shared Susie's bright and wild disorder.

‘Susie?' She could hear a muffled noise.

‘Go away.'

‘Susie, it's Jen.'

No answer. Jennifer opened the door an inch or two. Susie was lying sobbing on her tangled bed—still not dressed—dishevelled head pillowed in the duvet.

‘What is it, Susie? What's the matter?'

A sniff. A mumble. ‘Nothing.'

‘Are the boys all right? Where are they?'

‘Out.'

‘Nothing's happened to them?'

‘Bloody hell!' More sobbing. ‘That's all you think about.'

‘I'm sorry, I was just a bit … worried when the house seemed so deserted.'

‘They're at the … b … baths.' Susie rolled over, rubbed her sore and swollen eyes. Her face was puffed and blotchy, all her bounce and sparkle drained away.

Jennifer knelt and put her arms around her, tried to dry her tears. She had cried like that herself and Oz had kissed her better. Must erase those kisses, rip them off with her luggage labels, discard them like the disposable plastic titbits they had served up on the plane. It wasn't safe to bring Oz back with her.

She stroked back Susie's hair—a new punk style which was sticking up in front, but still long and wild and tangled at the back.

‘Look, let me get you something—a cup of tea or …'

‘No.'

‘Aren't you going to tell me what's the matter?'

‘It's … nothing really. I'm just a bit … Oh—forget it. I'm glad you're back.' Susie sat up and scrubbed her face with a tissue. Last night's mascara had run and streaked beneath her eyes, leaving panda circles. Her breasts were half-escaping from her nightdress. She had tied it round the middle with a long black shoelace from one of Oliver's rugger boots.

Jennifer was shredding a Kleenex into tiny mangled wisps. She had misjudged her husband. He wasn't wooing Susie, but had been out all night, cramped and camping in his car or pacing the streets in gloom. She ought to go and find him, make things right between them. She squeezed Susie's hand.

‘Well, I'm not going away any more, I promise you. I'll be here all summer. We can have some fun.'

‘No, we can't. We can't.' Susie was crying again, tears running into her mouth, stabbing on the sheets.

‘Why not?'

‘You d … don't understand.'

‘How can I understand if you won't tell me anything?' Jennifer stared at the plump body, the almost naked breasts. ‘It's not … Lyn, is it? I mean, you're not upset about that … row you had?'

‘No fear!'

‘What happened, Susie? You still haven't explained yet.' She'd have to know. If Susie didn't tell her, Lyn would.

‘Oh, leave it, Jen. It'll only make me mad again. I don't know how you stick that man.' Susie snatched up her packet of Woodbines, lit a match with an angry trembling hand.

‘He
is
my husband.'

‘Worse luck! You'd be better off without him.'

‘Where is he, Susie? Look, I want to know.' Jennifer tried to keep the impatience from her voice. She had missed Susie, longed for her, yet now she felt annoyed with her. It was Susie's fault she was back at Putney at all. If she hadn't locked Lyn out, she might be safe with him at Hernhope now, instead of paying for adultery with terror and remorse. Susie might be moping, but at least her life was her own. She could sob or screw or slop around in nighties without the entire media world pouncing on her crimes. She wasn't married, with vows and rules and loyalties like a fence around her freedom.

‘I dunno where he is.' Susie was sniffing and smoking at the same time, dropping ash on to the duvet. ‘I unbolted the doors at eight o' clock this morning. If he wants to go on sulking, that's his hard cheese.'

‘But why did he go in the first place? You must have upset him, Susie. He wouldn't leave for nothing.'

‘Oh, it's my fault, is it? He wasn't a moody neurotic pig until
I
came on the scene. God! You told me yourself he was a crackpot and a cry-baby and more or less a bloody nun.'

‘I didn't, Susie. I've never used words like that.'

‘Fuck the words! It's what you meant that counts. If a guy hasn't screwed his wife for over a year, there must be something wrong with him.'

‘I wish I'd never mentioned it. It was disloyal of me to …'

‘I don't blame you. You're right—he
is
a nun. Frankly, I didn't believe it when you told me. I've never met a bloke who's gone that long without it. So I thought I'd try him out. I wanted to see if he'd … change his mind—you know, with a different bird.'

‘Wh … What d'you mean?'

‘Oh, it was only a giggle, really. I … took all my clothes off and walked into his room. Just to see what he'd do.'

‘Susie! You …' Jennifer sprang towards her, almost hitting out. Was this the girl she loved, for heaven's sake?

She stared at the dishevelled bed, the creased and grubby sheet. Had Lyn been lying there, helping to make those creases? She could see Oz's bed again, semen stains accusing on his fuzzy dark blue blankets, pillows humped beneath her as they tried some new position.

‘Don't look so huffy, Jen.' Susie was fiddling with the match-box. ‘Nothing bloody happened—well,
almost
nothing.'

‘How could you, Susie? Lyn's married. You can't just … go for him like one of your casual … pick-ups.'

‘I told you, Jen, it was stalemate.'

‘Well, you shouldn't have even tried. Supposing he hadn't refused you? Then what?'

‘Look, I don't want your bloody husband—not if he came begging. He's worse than useless—in bed and out of it.'

‘That's a lie!'

‘Is it? So why did you tell me all that sob stuff? How every day he refused you made it worse, and you were getting so frustrated, you were beginning to understand how people had affairs and you'd even started …'

‘I … didn't.' Jennifer turned away. She was lying now herself. She had always avoided lies before, not simply on principle, but because lying was a skill she hadn't mastered. She was doing a crash-course in it now, cutting up truth into little bits like patchwork and making patterns with them, hemming all the edges, so nothing would fray or fall apart. Since the book her whole life had been a lie—false face, false words, false …

‘In fact, you even said it would serve Lyn right if you did have someone on the side. I remember it distinctly. You were sitting on my bed and you …'

‘Look, get out, Susie, before I …'

‘
You
get out,' Susie's voice was splintering into sobs again. ‘I never asked you up here. I felt bad enough already without you barging in and …'

‘And what d'you think I feel? I've been up all night and travelling half the morning and …'

‘Big deal! Flying first class with everybody fawning on you and lolling about in swanky hotels with half a dozen bell-boys at your …'

‘It's
not
like that. You know it's not. I'm sick of the whole thing, anyway—careering around the country, smarming and smiling all the time, when …'

‘That's hardly my fault, is it?'

‘Maybe not, but at least your life's your own.'

‘No, it's not, it's not. You don't understand.' Susie had sprung off the bed and was blocking the doorway. ‘My life's
not
my own—not any more, it isn't.' She grabbed Jennifer by the elbow, clung to her, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Please don't go. Don't leave me. I'm sorry about Lyn. It wasn't just a grope, honest it wasn't. I wanted him to h … help me, Jen. You see … Oh God! I don't know how to tell you this, but …but—I'm going to have a … baby.'

Jennifer stopped, hand on the door knob, words spinning in her ears. Her legs had turned from flesh and bone to pulp.
‘What
?'

‘Yeah, I'm bloody pregnant. And I don't even know who the f … father is.'

‘Susie!'

‘Oh, you're shocked, I suppose. Like Lyn. Yeah, your precious husband was horrified. That's why we had the row.'

‘You t …
told
him?' Lyn who hated babies, feared them; who tried to pretend they didn't grow in women, but sprung unmessy and unseeded from some supermarket shelf.

‘There was no one else to tell, Jen. Look, I've been trying and trying to pretend it wasn't happening, that I've been missing periods through nerves or chance or something. Yesterday, I went to the doctor. Forced myself. His hands were freezing cold and he had this stupid little laugh. About fourteen weeks, he said.'

‘Fourteen
weeks!'

‘Yeah. Five-and-a-half months to go and I'll be pushing the pram.'

‘But why didn't you go to someone earlier?'

‘I didn't dare. Oh, I know it sounds crazy, but I thought if I don't admit to it, it'll go away. I just told myself I couldn't be pregnant, that it simply wasn't happening—not to me. When I felt sick, I put it down to a hangover, or something I'd eaten which didn't agree with me. Does that sound mad to you?'