Losing Me (31 page)

“It’s not enough.”

“So what are you thinking? Some kind of memorial?”

“Possibly. I’m not sure.”

As Barbara’s thoughts petered out, Jean changed the subject. “So were you on your own last night? Why on earth didn’t you come over to me? I was home by six.”

“I tried to get you, but in the end I had dinner with Jack.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I didn’t want to go. It felt wrong. But I was desperate for somebody to talk to.”

“For heaven’s sake, Bar, you said you’d nip this thing in the bud. What’s going on with you?”

“OK, I have something to tell you, and I want you to promise not to get cross.”

“What now?”

“I’ve decided to spend the weekend with Jack in Gloucestershire.”

Silence.

“You’re not saying anything.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me that you get it. The thing is, it’s been such a lousy few months. I’ve been ill. Frank’s been so bloody mean. I’m lonely and miserable. I’ve been at the end of my tether. I’m just desperate to feel the sunshine.”

“So book a cheap holiday.”

“Now you’re being mean.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to say—other than you’re completely mad.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. How is Virgil, by the way?”

“Bar, I’m trying to help.”

“I know. And I’m asking you if having a fling would be so terrible? Does it make me a bad person?”

“Of course it doesn’t make you a bad person. But if Frank were to find out, all hell would break loose and I suspect you’d lose him. . . . Of course, deep down that might be what you want.”

Just as Jack had, she pleaded with Barbara to think carefully before she acted on her crazy impulse.

•   •   •

Barbara thought while she trawled through eBay, looking for a bike for Troy. Since his was ruined, she thought a new one might cheer him up. He could ride it when Mike took him to the park. She thought while she waited for her Irish stew to
ping
in the microwave. She thought while she watched
Roseanne
reruns. She lay awake most of the night thinking. Should she put her marriage at risk for a bit of fun? A bit of hanky-panky, as Rose would call it. But her marriage had been at risk long before Jack came along. Jack was caring and attentive. He worried about her. She had never realized that kindness could be so sexy. She didn’t want to walk away—at least not yet.

So long as she kept her affair secret, Frank would never find out. No harm—or at least no additional harm—would be done.

Barbara called Jack the following morning.

“I haven’t changed my mind. I want to come to Gloucestershire.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes.”

Chapter 14

J
ack picked her up early on Friday morning. That way they would miss the lunchtime exodus of weekenders heading off to their second homes in the country.

He put her bag in the trunk and turned to her. “You can still back out, you know.”

She kissed him firmly on the mouth and climbed into the car.

“What did you tell Ben?” he said.

“Nothing. He spends weekends at his girlfriend’s place.”

The plan was to drive straight to the house. Jack would give the place the once-over and collect his mail. Later on they would check into a local pub with rooms. Neither of them was comfortable with the idea of making love in the house that Jack had shared with his wife.

Two hours later they were driving along narrow Cotswold lanes, skimming the ivy and ferns that sprouted from the drystone walls. Behind these the fields were yellow with rapeseed. Honey-colored, limestone villages nestling beside millstreams and Saxon churches came and went. The guidebooks described these places as idyllic, rural retreats, but they gave Barbara the willies. This was prime Tory terrain, where no black face dared to venture. Behind the mullioned windows of the cutesy tea shops, locals downed scrumptious scones the size of cushions and fretted about immigrants.

At one point the trees on either side of the road arched overhead so that the tips of the branches met and formed a dark, leafy tunnel.

“Almost there,” Jack said.

She felt her stomach tighten. This was followed by a surge of emotion that she couldn’t explain—other than that it wasn’t entirely pleasant. She put it down to nervous anticipation.

After a few hundred yards Jack swung the car onto a gravel drive. At the end stood a Georgian limestone house covered in creeper. “Oh my Lord,” Barbara said as they pulled up. “This is so grand. I take it the butler has informed the under parlor maid to build a fire in the library.”

“Come on. It’s not that big.”

“You think? OK, so what are we looking at? Eight bedrooms?”

“Ten and a boxroom.”

“Practically a slum.”

“I can take you home, you know,” he said, grinning.

“Not on your life. I want the guided tour.”

•   •   •

As soon as they were inside, Jack disappeared into the kitchen to switch on the heating and read the mail. “Feel free to take a wander.” She could tell he didn’t feel comfortable showing off the house in person.

Leading off the wood-paneled entrance hall were two living rooms, a formal dining room and a library. The original limestone floors had been covered with shabby antique Persian rugs that had no doubt cost a fortune. There were grand stone fireplaces with brass surrounds, lots of dainty Georgian furniture and feather-backed sofas that cried out for dozing Labradors. In the main living room, which looked out onto an acre of pristine lawns and to the gently sloping Wolds beyond, a grand piano was festooned with family photographs—all in ornate silver frames. Barbara picked one up. It was a photograph of Jack and a woman she took to be Faye. They were standing, each with an arm around Sally, who looked to be about sixteen. Judging by Jack’s buttonhole and Faye’s hat, it had been taken at a wedding. In her powder-blue silk suit and understated jewelry, Faye radiated simple, effortless elegance and good breeding. In another picture, taken years earlier, she was on the beach helping Sally build a sandcastle. Faye was wearing a sundress, which, along with her mane of shoulder-length hair, was billowing artfully in the sea breeze. Barbara thought of her own family beach snaps: her looking like she’d just been swimming in a volcano, the kids covered in mosquito bites and—the bit you couldn’t see—Frank swearing because there was sand in the camera lens again.

The house was all so feminine: from the eggshell blues and dusky pinks to the chintz and tassels and heavily draped swag tails at the windows. Jack’s builders may have restored the structure, but the decor had without a doubt been down to Faye. Everywhere you looked, she was here.

Barbara found Jack in the cream Shaker kitchen, unloading bits and pieces that he’d picked up for lunch from his local deli. She offered to help, but he insisted he could manage. “And I’ve put the kettle on,” he said.

Barbara took in the green Aga, the rows of cookery books, the Cath Kidston oven gloves and tea towels. Like the rest of the house, it radiated warmth and coziness. She gazed at the long pine dining table, which probably seated a dozen people—maybe more—and imagined the boozy, friend – and family-filled Sunday lunches and celebrations that must have taken place in this kitchen.

There was another family photograph sitting on the breakfast bar. Faye was cradling Sally as a newborn. “I love that picture,” Jack said. “She’s so happy. She was ecstatic when she became a mother. It was all she’d ever wanted. But one was enough. Faye liked tidiness and order. Children got in the way of that.”

Barbara asked if he regretted not having more.

“Sometimes, but it meant that she always had time for me. I would be the first to admit that I was very spoiled.” He poured boiling water into a red spotted Cath Kidston teapot. “You remind me of her.”

“Me?” Barbara laughed. “Yeah, posh, refined and the perfect consort. You’ve got me pegged.”

“I don’t mean in that way,” he said. “She was strong. After her diagnosis the doctors gave her nine months. She lasted three years. You have that kind of strength.”

“And look where it’s got me—a husband who takes me for granted.”

She noticed Jack’s bag of golf clubs leaning against the wall. For a shameful, unforgivable moment, she was wanted to call Frank and tell him that she’d found Jack’s bag of golf bats.

“Maybe I should take up golf,” Barbara said. “I need something to keep me occupied.”

“I have to say it’s kept me sane. When the weather’s good, I play most days.”

“Don’t you find it a bit tedious?”

“Not really. A round of golf, a pub lunch with a few of the chaps and . . .”

“And what?”

“I suppose what I’m trying to say is . . . and then the day’s almost over.”

“You still struggle to get through the days?”

“Some are worse than others,” he said.

Barbara felt her stomach lurch.

•   •   •

She poured the tea while Jack found plates and cutlery and laid the food out on the table. They ripped into the baguette and spread it with pâté and smelly French cheese.

“So what are your plans?” Barbara said, helping herself to some sun-dried tomatoes. “I mean, you must feel you’re rattling around in this house. Have you thought about selling it?”

He didn’t reply.

“I’m sorry. That was tactless.”

“I’m not ready to let go of this place. Not yet.”

He meant that he wasn’t ready to let go of Faye. Something chimed in Barbara’s memory. This wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned how much he missed Faye. She remembered them discussing her death, their near-perfect marriage and how he struggled without her. So why had he kissed her, agreed to them spending the weekend together?

After they’d eaten, Jack made coffee and they took it into the smaller, more cozy living room. The mantelpiece was decked in ornamental elephants. A couple had to be a foot tall. Some were barely an inch. There were wooden ones, china ones, some made of terra-cotta. A couple were encrusted with glass jewels. Barbara picked up one of the twee, twinkly elephants.

“Cute, aren’t they?” Jack said. “Faye had never shown a moment’s interest in collecting, and then suddenly, after Sally left home, she got this bee in her bonnet about elephants. Everywhere we went she insisted on coming back with one. Of course, they’re ten a penny in India or Africa, but you try finding an elephant in Reykjavík.”

“I bet.”

“Sally used to tease her about it and told her she was turning into a dotty old woman. But I found it rather appealing. I liked the idea of the two of us growing old and a bit eccentric together.”

They sat side by side on the pretty chintz sofa, sipping their coffee.

“We’re a funny old pair, you and me,” Barbara said.

“In what way?”

“OK, tell me this: Why did you kiss me the other night?”

“That’s an odd question. I’d have thought it was pretty obvious. Because I find you immensely attractive and I was overcome with desire. Why did you kiss me back?”

“Same reason.”

“So?”

“So don’t you find it odd that we’re sitting here drinking coffee when we could be in our room at the pub enjoying glorious afternoon sex?”

“But we’ve just finished lunch. It’s nice to have coffee after lunch. We’re not exactly teenagers. We’re simply taking our time. Aren’t we?”

“Maybe.”

“Barbara, what exactly are you saying?”

“Well . . . I think we’re both putting off having sex. I know I am. I got this odd, slightly queasy feeling earlier, as we pulled onto the drive. I put it down to nerves, but I know perfectly well what it was—guilt. Despite all my bravado, I can’t bring myself to cheat on Frank. He’s behaved badly, but he doesn’t deserve that.”

His face didn’t register a glimmer of surprise. “Well, it’s not like I didn’t try to dissuade you from coming. . . . So why am I trying to avoid sex?”

“You’re seriously asking that question? You need me to tell you that you’re still in love with Faye?”

He didn’t say anything.

“And to put it bluntly, I have no intention of being made love to by a man who’s still nuts about his wife. So what was the real reason you kissed me?”

“I told you the real reason.”

“No, you told me part of it.”

Jack reached forward and put his mug down on the coffee table. “OK . . . The truth is I thought that having a relationship with you would help me get over Faye—stop me living in the past.”

“So you were using me?”

“No, of course not. It wasn’t like that. You’re a beautiful, intelligent, sexy woman. I fell for you the moment I met you.”

“That doesn’t mean that you weren’t using me . . . in the nicest possible way. Just like I was using you—to get back at Frank.”

“Good Lord. We’ve got ourselves into a right old pickle. But I want you to know that even if I was using you—in the nicest possible way—I did genuinely fall for you.”

She took his hand. “And I fell for you. It was your charm, your immense kindness. Oh, and the fact that you remind me of that actor—you know the one . . . that rather handsome, white-haired chap in
Mad Men
. I can never think of his name.”

“Me neither, but I think you’ll find he has a lot more hair than me.”

“No, he hasn’t. But we’re getting off the point. The fact is that neither of us is in the right place to start a relationship. I don’t know much about coping with bereavement. I didn’t really grieve for my father—at least not in the traditional way. But I don’t think people are meant to
get over
losing loved ones. You were married to Faye for three decades. From what I’ve read, the trick is to learn to live alongside your grief.”

“What can I say?” He paused and took a long breath. “You’re right, of course. Sleeping with you would feel as if I were cheating on her.”

Barbara put her arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s OK,” she said. “I’m not offended. I get it.”

“I’m so sorry. I thought I could do this. I’d convinced myself that I was ready.”

“And the truth is,” Barbara said with a weak smile, “that neither of us is ready. It’s funny how complicated and emotionally fraught people’s lives can be—even at our age. I thought my friend Jean and her husband had the perfect marriage. Turns out her husband’s never really been interested in sex. She loves him and doesn’t want to end the marriage, so now she keeps a gigolo on the side.”

“How frightfully Latin. Good for her.”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Barbara was suddenly overcome with guilt. “Please don’t tell anybody I told you all this. Jean’s my best friend. I’d hate her to think I’d been gossiping.”

“Of course I won’t, and anyway, who am I going to tell?” He paused. “So, will you at least stay for the weekend? I know some great walks, and there’s this pub that does a fantastic Sunday roast.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I’d rather head back to London.”

“Then I’ll take you.”

She said there was no way she was about to ruin his weekend and she was more than happy to take the train. But Jack insisted. He said it was the least he could do.

Half an hour later they were back in the car.

“I’ve been thinking,” Barbara said. “Why don’t you go back to work? The challenge might be what you need.”

“No. I’m happy with my golf. I’m not like you. I don’t want to fight the dying of the light.”

“Good Lord. You make it sound like you’re ready to pop your clogs right now.”

“Not remotely. What I am ready to do is embrace a new phase in my life. I’m done with deals, the cut and thrust. I don’t mind showing up to the odd business meeting, but mainly I want to take walks, watch the seasons change, read all the stuff I never got round to.”

They spent the next half hour in comfortable silence. While Jack listened to the afternoon play on Radio 4, Barbara closed her eyes. She tried to doze, but her thoughts turned to Tiffany—the moment of her dying. Over the last few days, she’d pictured it again and again: holding her hand; Tiffany lying there, still wearing her eyelash extensions, looking as if at any moment she might wake up; that terrible tattoo on her arm. When the tears came and she could bear the sadness no longer, she tried to think sweeter thoughts. But tropical beaches and her grandchildren’s laughter refused to come. Instead she found herself on the Orchard Farm Estate, in front of the community hall. The image roused her and she opened her eyes. The idea felt as if it had come slap bang out of nowhere. But it hadn’t. Ideas rarely did. She knew it had been brewing for a while—even before Tiffany died. The seed had been sewn the day she’d peered in through the bashed-in window of the community center and decided the council would never consider rebuilding it. She waited until the afternoon play had finished before saying anything.

“Jack, can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything.” He switched off the radio.