Sleeping Arrangements (26 page)

'No, don't. It doesn't matter.'

She sank into his embrace, feeling like a child; wanting to be cherished and protected and looked after. Philip stroked her back, soothingly, rhythmically, until her breathing calmed and she began to relax.

'One thing is,' he said softly, 'we don't have to worry about money. Not for a while, anyway. The terms of redundancy are very generous.'

'Really?'

'Hugh said it would be at least two years' salary.

'Hugh?' Chloe stiffened at the name. 'You mean . . . you told Hugh before me?' she said, trying to sound casual.

'Oh, he knew already. He very decently tried to help, but it was no go.'

Chloe sat up and stared at him, feeling disoriented. Her face was still raw and red, a stray tear resting on the curve of her cheekbone.

'What . . . what do you mean, he knew?' she said, trying to stay calm. 'Philip, what are you talking about?'

Hugh sat alone in the study, staring blankly ahead. He felt as though the ground had been taken away from underneath him. All the hours spent at work; all the effort and time and devotion—for what? When it really mattered, he was as powerless as anybody. As powerless as one of his little icons in a bowler hat. Just another cog in the machine, whose opinion on anything beyond his own narrow field counted for nothing. He'd thought he commanded a certain degree of power and respect within the company. Without ever testing it, he'd believed it was there. But it wasn't. He had nothing.

He felt he'd been tricked: the mirror had turned and he'd glimpsed things as they really were. His career; his life. His decisions. One could spend a whole life labouring under a false impression. Pursuing a mirage.

So much about his life he'd got wrong. He rested his head in his palms and stared down at his knees, at the mocking holiday blue of his swimming trunks. If he'd stayed with Chloe, what might his life with her—and Sam, and their own children—have been? What kind of a person might he have become? He had a sudden vision of himself, kicking a football about the park with a young, laughing Sam. Would fatherhood have been different? Would everything have been different?

The phone rang, and for a ridiculous moment he wondered if it was Tony. Ringing back with a change of decision, offering Philip a well-paid job. Apologizing, even.

'Hello?' he said, his voice lifted by hope.

'Hello, is that Hugh?' came a rich baritone voice. 'It's Gerard, here.'

Hugh felt a plunge of shock. For a moment he was winded, unable to speak.

'I've got news for you, old thing. I'm here, in Spain! I'm coming to see you!'

'You're in Spain?' said Hugh. Suddenly he recalled Sam's words. He's coming out to see us. 'Gerard, what the fuck are you—'

'I was suddenly taken by a little whim,' said Gerard, 'to come out and see how you were all getting along together. I'm staying with friends at Granada tonight, but I'll be with you by tomorrow afternoon. You'll be able to squeeze me in all right, won't you? I'm so looking forward to seeing you all!' The gloating edge to his voice was unmistakable, and Hugh had a vision of him in his old-fashioned panama hat, holding a glass of wine in his hand, a little smile at his lips. 'How are you getting along, by the way?' added Gerard innocently. 'All going smoothly, I hope?'

'You're a bastard, Gerard,' said Hugh, gripping the receiver tightly.

'I'm sorry?'

'This isn't a sudden whim, is it? You were planning to come out all the time. You're just a sadistic, sad little—'

'Now, Hugh,' exclaimed Gerard. 'That's a little strong, isn't it? I know I've put you all out a little—but really, anyone can make a mistake . . .'

'It wasn't a mistake. You knew about PBL and National Southern. You knew what the situation was. Jesus Christ, Gerard . . .'

'Oh Hugh, I'm so sorry.' There was a bubble of laughter in Gerard's voice. 'Has it been awkward for you, then? I wouldn't have wanted that . . .'

'I suppose you think it's funny, I suppose you enjoy having your little power trip, ruining other people's lives . . .'

'Really, Hugh!' exclaimed Gerard. 'Don't be so melodramatic! A little joke never hurt anyone.'

'You call it a joke? To . . . to play God like this?'

'You're a fine one to talk about playing God! That's your job!' cried Gerard. 'Dear me, Hugh, have you lost all your sense of humour? And anyway, who's to say my motives weren't entirely honourable? Maybe I thought it would be a good thing for you and Philip to get together. Two sides of the same coin, as it were.'

'And what about me and Chloe? Did you think that was a joke, too?'

There was silence, save for the crackling down the line.

'What about you and Chloe?' said Gerard.

He sounded genuinely puzzled. Hugh stared at the telephone receiver, his heart thumping, his mind darting back and forth. What was Gerard doing? Was he playing another game?

'Hugh? Are you there?'

Surely Gerard knew. He had to. Didn't he?

Hugh screwed his face up, thinking hard. Gerard had been away all the rest of that summer. By the time he'd returned, the affair was over. Hugh had never mentioned it to him.

Maybe Chloe never had, either. Maybe . . .

Maybe Gerard had no idea. In which case . . .

Hugh's hand was sweaty. In which case he had nearly given away the most important, most tender secret of his life. To, of all people, Gerard Lowe. Feeling slightly sick, he imagined the delight with which Gerard would seize on such a piece of information; the insinuations and stirring that would follow. It couldn't, mustn't happen.

'Yes,' he said, desperately trying to sound casual. 'Yes, I'm here. I just mean . . . it's been awkward for all of us. Amanda too . . .'

'Dear old thing, I must go,' said Gerard. 'My hostess is calling. But I'll see you all tomorrow. OK?'

'OK,' said Hugh and put down the receiver, his hand still trembling. The enormity of what he had almost done made him feel hollow. He had stepped up to a precipice and realized the danger just in time.

And suddenly, like a survivor clinging onto the grassy cliff-top, his life seemed to take on a different perspective. Suddenly, the things he'd taken for granted seemed dear to him. His marriage, his wife, his children.

He had risked losing them all. Not a theoretical risk, or a 'what-if' scenario; nor a piece of hypothetical strategy constructed on a safe computer screen. He had taken a real-life, heartin-mouth risk. He had had sex with another woman. He had proposed to another woman, yards away from where his wife lay sleeping. If she had happened to wake up, wandered out, discovered them . . .

Hugh closed his eyes, feeling weak. He would have lost her and the children. Lost Chloe, too. Lost everything. What dangerous game have I been playing? he thought. What fucking stupid, dangerous game have I been playing?

Feeling slightly dazed, he went over to a drinks table by the window. He poured himself a whisky and downed it, then poured another. His eyes focused. His face tightened as he saw Philip and Chloe sitting on a grassy bank together. Their heads were close and their arms were around each other, and they were talking earnestly. Chloe seemed to be crying.

He pressed his head against the window and stared at them, like a child against a toy shop window, watching with a pang as Chloe clasped Philip's hand and entwined her fingers in his. They gazed at each other in a way Amanda and he had never done.

He must have been mad, he thought, clenching his fist by his side. He must have been out of his mind. Chloe would never be his. He had thought she could be; had crazily thought Sam could become the son he'd never had. A dart of emotion went through him at the thought of young Sam, and he shook his head roughly to rid himself of that image, of that cheerful baby on the rug. Because it was too late now, too fucking late. Just look at her. Look at Philip, rubbing her back; now cradling her in his arms, pushing back her hair with an easy familiarity.

How many hours and days and weeks together did that closeness reflect? How many tears and hopes and problems? He could never hope to compete with that strength, that unity.

Chloe had been right—as she was always right. Fifteen years was fifteen years. In comparison he was a beginner. A nonstarter.

Which left him . . . where? Hugh breathed a circle of mist onto the glass, lifted a finger and slowly rubbed it out. With his wife and family and marriage. With the people who should have been closest to him but weren't. With the framework which seemed always to operate efficiently around him, never quite touching, never quite impinging on his life or his comforts or his emotions.

A raised voice drew his attention and he watched, rigid-faced, as Philip said something which made Chloe laugh as she looked up at him, eyes shining, oblivious of being watched.

I've missed out, he thought. I've missed out on knowing my wife properly, and knowing my children properly. Eight years of family life—and where have I spent ninety per cent of it? In the office. On the phone. Striving for a career that all of a sudden seems hollow. I'm a strategist, for Christ's sake. How can I have got my own life so completely screwed up?

Hugh drew a little back from the window and stared at his own dim reflection. He had never, in all his life, felt quite so alone. For a few minutes he was motionless, staring at himself, aware of Philip and Chloe in the background like a cinefilm, allowing his thoughts to settle and harden and focus.

He would change things. He would change himself, turn into the person he wanted to be.

Reclaim his life, reclaim his children. It wasn't too late.

With a sudden steeliness, he went over to the desk and dialled a number.

'Hello,' he said as soon as he was put through. 'Tony—it's Hugh Stratton here again. No, this isn't about Philip Murray.' He looked again at his reflection and took a deep breath. 'This is about me.'

At six o'clock, Jenna wandered into the kitchen and stopped in surprise. Nat, Octavia and Beatrice were sitting on the floor, watching a Spanish cartoon on the wall-mounted television and eating chocolate lollies. And Amanda was sitting at the marble breakfast bar, swigging what looked like . . . Jenna peered in disbelief at the bottle. Was Amanda Snooty-face really getting plastered on vodka?

'Was it a good afternoon?' she asked politely.

There was no reply.

'Amanda?' said Jenna, feeling a twinge of apprehension.

'Disastrous,' said Amanda, without looking up. 'Utterly disastrous. We drove for miles and miles in the blistering heat—to find that the donkey sanctuary was closed for repair work.' She took a swig from her glass. 'So we had some food in a revolting café and drove back—and on the way, all three children were sick.'

'Jeepers,' said Jenna, glancing over at the children. 'All of them?'

'Nat at least warned me in time to stop the car,' said Amanda. 'Octavia and Beatrice had less foresight. I had to find a garage and explain the situation and get them to give me a hose.

Then back we drove, at approximately two miles an hour, stopping every ten minutes.' She looked up. 'I've had better days, to be perfectly honest.'

Cautiously, Jenna sat down at the breakfast bar opposite Amanda. She peered at her downturned face, and noticed for the first time the anxious lines etched faintly into her tanned forehead. There was a crease of tension between her immaculately plucked brows, and she was clasping her glass tightly, as though to stop her hand from trembling.

'Amanda . . .' said Jenna gently, 'are you having a good holiday? Are you enjoying yourself?'

'I suppose so,' said Amanda, as though the thought hadn't occurred to her. 'The arrangements aren't perfect; I could have done with a bit more privacy. But . . .' She tailed away and took a gulp of vodka. 'It's fine. All things considered. It's fine. If it wasn't quite so bloody hot . .

.'

'You should have a day to yourself,' suggested Jenna. 'Go out, have some fun . . .'

'Maybe,' said Amanda, staring into her glass. Then she looked up with faintly bloodshot eyes. 'Why on earth do we come on holiday anyway? Why does anyone go on holiday?'

'I don't know,' said Jenna. 'To relax? To . . . spend time with each other?'

A strange little smile passed over Amanda's face.

'Hugh and I seem to have failed on both those counts,' she said. 'I've barely laid eyes on him since we've got here. And neither of us is very good at relaxing.'

'Well, there are lots of other things that count, too,' said Jenna encouragingly. 'Like . . .

your tan is great.' She gestured admiringly.

'Thank you,' muttered Amanda, and took another swig of vodka. 'You're very kind.'

She lapsed into silence and Jenna stared at her, feeling a tug of compassion.

'Tell you what,' she said. 'I'll take the girls off, and put them to bed. Then you can unwind and . . .' She hesitated. 'Enjoy the evening.'

'Thanks,' said Amanda. With a visible effort, she looked up. 'Thank you, Jenna. I know the arrangement was that we would share charge in the evenings . . .'

'Don't worry about it!' said Jenna. 'I'd be the same if I'd had three kids throwing up in my car all afternoon. C'mon. girls. Cartoons are over.'

She zapped the television dead and rounded up the feebly protesting children. Leaving the kitchen she glanced back, and saw Amanda pouring herself another glass of vodka.

The sound of children in the hall jolted Hugh out of his reverie. For a long while, he had been sitting motionless in the gloom of the study, drinking shots of whisky. He listened as the childish chatter and occasional whine, underpinned by Jenna's firm commands, disappeared from earshot. Then, filled with resolve, he stood up, put down his glass and headed for the door.

Jenna and the children were in the girls' bedroom when he arrived upstairs. In the adjoining bathroom, water was thundering into the bath. Octavia was sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair with a brush shaped like a teddy bear, and Beatrice was standing in front of Jenna as she briskly undressed her. His heart thumping, Hugh stared at his daughters, as if seeing them for the first time. At Octavia, humming dreamily as she gazed at her own reflection; at Beatrice, wrinkling her nose as Jenna pulled her T-shirt over her head.