Sleeping Arrangements (9 page)

Later that night, in his Kilburn bedroom, she had forced him to peel her dress off in slow motion, pausing long enough for her to show him each handstitched seam in turn. By the time the dress was fully off, he'd wanted her more than he'd ever wanted any woman in his life.

They had lain afterwards in silence. Hugh had already been thinking ahead to the next morning; to how he might extricate himself from spending the entire day in her company.

When she had murmured something and got out of bed he had barely noticed. It was only when she was half dressed that he had realized, with a pang of genuine shock, that she was preparing to leave.

'I have to get back,' she'd said, and given him a soft kiss on his brow. 'But maybe we can see each other again.' As she'd closed the door behind her, Hugh had realized, rather to his chagrin, that this was the first time he'd been the one left behind in an empty bed while his partner made excuses. To his faint surprise, he didn't like it.

The next time they'd met, she had left his bed in the same way—and the next. After a couple of weeks he'd casually asked why—and she'd said something about the aunt she lived with on the outskirts of London being a fussy type. She had never explained further; never changed the pattern. In those three summer months—which had otherwise been pretty well perfect—she had not once spent an entire night with him. Eventually he had abandoned all pride; had pleaded with her to sleep for a night with him. 'I want to see what you look like when you wake up,' he'd said, laughing a little to hide the fact that he was speaking the truth.

She had not relented. The temptation, he now saw, must have been huge—but she had resolutely refused to weaken. If he closed his eyes now, he could still recall the rustle of her jeans; the hiss of a cotton shirt; the clinking of a belt buckle. The sounds of her silently pulling her clothes on in the darkness and disappearing to the place where he was never invited.

She looked so slight; so elfin. But Chloe was one of the strongest people he had ever known. Even at the time, he had appreciated it. It had been around then that one of his friends from school had been killed, abroad, in a mountaineering accident. Gregory hadn't been the closest of friends—but the shock had hit Hugh hard. He had never encountered death before, and had been frightened at the strength of his own reaction. After the initial shock, a depression had set in which lasted for weeks. Chloe had sat with him hour after hour, listening, counselling, soothing him. She was never hurried, never impatient; was always full of a grounded, measured sense. He still missed that sense; that strength. He'd never had to explain himself to her: she'd always understood the way his mind was working. She had seemed to understand him better than he understood himself.

Hugh had emerged from that black, grief-stricken period full of a new vigour. He had felt determined to grab his life while he still had it, and make it something. To win success; to make money; to achieve all that he could. He had begun to look at high-flying careers, to send off for glossy corporate brochures and visit the London University careers office.

At about the same time as he was attending milk rounds and meeting with recruitment consultants, Chloe had begun, for the first time, to mention her home life. To refer to her aunt and her young school-age cousins. And to someone called Sam, whom she was keen for him to meet.

He still remembered that day with cold clarity. The journey to the outskirts of London. The walk along identically neat suburban streets. They had stopped at a small, mock-Tudor house, Chloe had shyly opened the door and ushered him in. Shrinking slightly from the do-mestic scenario, he had nevertheless smiled back encouragingly, stepped into the narrow hallway and into the front room. There he had stopped in surprise. Sitting on the carpet was a baby, grinning up at him.

Gamely, he had smiled back, thinking the infant to be some nephew, some friend's child.

Nothing to do with Chloe. Not Chloe, who was twenty years old; who still looked like a child herself. He'd turned to make some flippant remark—and had seen her face suffused with love.

'He likes you.' She'd gone over and picked the baby up and brought him over. 'Say hello to Hugh, Sam.' Hugh had stared, bewildered, at the baby's cheerful face—and gradually, like a stone falling through water, the appalling truth had sunk in.

He still remembered the choking panic he'd felt. The anger; the betrayal at her trickery.

He'd sat drinking tea, a smile plastered on his face, making conversation with the aunt, fielding her hopeful questions as best he could. But his mind was far away, planning his escape.

He could no longer look at Chloe without feeling a sick fury. How could she have spoiled everything like this? How could she have a baby?

Later, she had drawn him aside to explain everything. As the aunt clattered crockery in the kitchen she had explained her diffidence at introducing anyone to Sam; her agonizing over when to tell him; her decision to postpone the moment until he had recovered more from Gregory's death. 'I thought if I told you I had a baby, you wouldn't be interested,' she'd said.

'But when you met him and saw how lovely he was . . .' She'd broken off, her cheeks flushed softly with emotion, and Hugh had nodded, his face frozen.

Swiftly she had given him the bare facts of Sam's conception. Her affair with a tutor much older, her naivety, her painful decision to keep the child. Hugh had barely listened to a word.

The next day he had left the country. He had travelled alone to Corfu on a last-minute package deal and had sat on the beach, staring blackly into the sea, hating her. For he still wanted her. He still craved her. But he couldn't have her. He couldn't have a baby in his life.

She should have known that, he'd thought with a hot resentment, burying his baking head in his hands. Everything had been so perfect—and now she had ruined it.

He had sat for two weeks, every day growing more tanned and more determined. He would not throw his life away on another man's child. He would not be tempted into making some rash gesture which later he would regret. Instead, he would pursue the goals he had set himself; the high-flying solo path that was meant for him. He would have the life he wanted.

When he returned, there had been too many messages from Chloe to count. He had ignored them all, filled in application forms for graduate positions in all the big management consultancy firms, and begun term. When he heard her voice on his answer machine, or saw her handwriting on the door-mat, he would feel an ache in his chest. But he schooled himself to ignore it, to carry on regardless—and after a while it had lessened. Gradually Chloe's messages had become fewer—and then shorter. And eventually they had stopped altogether, like a child upstairs crying itself to sleep.

Hugh shifted uncomfortably on his recliner and opened one eye. Chloe was lying down; he couldn't see her face. Philip was sitting up, though, and under the pretext of reaching for his newspaper, Hugh surveyed him. He wasn't bad looking, in an untidy sort of way, he thought grudgingly. But his face was pale and stubbled, and creased in a frown. He was staring into the middle distance, apparently oblivious of Hugh, of Chloe; of everything.

'Dad?'

Philip's head jerked up—and, with it, so did Hugh's. Sam was loping towards the swimming pool, a badminton racquet in his hand. He surveyed the area, taking in Hugh's presence without interest. As their eyes met, Hugh stared back at him, feeling an absurd swell of emotion. That baby, sitting on that suburban carpet years ago, was now this tall, good-looking young man. He felt a ludicrous desire to go over to the boy and tell him, I knew you before you were even one year old.

But Sam had already turned to his father. His stepfather, Hugh corrected himself.

'Dad, we want to play badminton.'

'Well, play badminton, then,' said Philip.

'Yeah, but the net keeps falling over.'

'Have you anchored it properly?' Sam shrugged, with a supreme lack of interest, and reached for a can of Coke on the ground. 'Lazy blighter,' said Philip. 'I suppose you want me to set it up for you?'

'Yeah.'

Philip shook his head and looked at Chloe, raising a faint smile.

'Do we believe this boy's idleness?'

'Bone idle,' said Sam with satisfaction. 'That's me.' He took a swig of Coke and as he did so, met Hugh's eyes across the pool.

Immediately, Hugh looked away, feeling like an intruder. Like an eavesdropper, listening in on their family life.

'Give me a moment,' said Philip. 'Go on, I'll be along in a sec.'

'We're in the field,' said Sam, and pointed. 'Over there behind the trees.'

He disappeared, and Hugh watched him go, feeling a sudden pang of jealousy. He was jealous of this golden-haired boy; of his easy relationship with a father who wasn't even biologically related to him. Of the way in which that whole family seemed to take each other for granted.

Abruptly he stood up and, trying to quell his awkwardness, walked over to the shallows of the pool where Octavia was splashing. He caught her eye and gave her a jovial grin.

'Do you want to play catch?' he said. 'Play catch with Daddy?' Octavia squinted puzzledly at him, and he suddenly realized he had no ball. 'Or . . . or hide-and-seek,' he amended. 'Or something else fun.' He gestured to the grassy area to his right. 'Let's go and play a game!'

There was a pause, then, with no great enthusiasm, Octavia began to make her way out of the pool, towards him. Hugh hurried onto the grassy area, looking around for inspiration.

What did children play? What had he played as a child? Meccano, he remembered. And that superb train set they'd had up in the attic. He would buy his girls a train set, he decided, with a flash of enthusiasm. Why shouldn't they enjoy trains, too? He would buy it as soon as they got back to England. The biggest train set in the shop. But in the meantime . . . well, what was wrong with a simple game of It?

'OK, Octavia, what we're going to do—' he began cheerfully, turning round—and froze.

Octavia had not followed him onto the grass. She was pattering off in the opposite direction after Jenna, who had appeared from nowhere, carrying some brightly coloured inflatable toy.

Hugh was marooned. Stranded alone on the grass, feeling foolish, with suddenly trembling legs. His child had rejected him. He was a thirty-six-year-old man standing alone on a patch of grass, waiting to play a game with no-one.

For a few seconds he remained completely still, unable to think what to do, what excuse to use. No-one else had heard his words to Octavia, but he still felt stiffly self-conscious. At last, with hot cheeks, he wandered over to a nearby tree and began to examine its bark, his brow furrowed intently.

After a few moments, Amanda pulled her headphones from her ears and looked up in puzzlement.

'Hugh—what on earth are you doing?' she said. Hugh stared back, his fingers still clinging to the bark.

'Just . . .' he paused. 'I just thought I'd go and call in to the office. Check up on what's been happening. I won't be long.'

Amanda rolled her eyes.

'Suit yourself.' She flopped back onto her sun lounger and, in an involuntary motion, Hugh's fingers snapped a piece of bark off the tree. He looked at it for a second, then dropped it on the ground. Then, his face quite rigid, he turned and walked towards the villa.

The boys had grown bored with watching Philip put up the badminton net, and had returned to the pool for a swim. Chloe watched Nat's cautious breaststroke with a painful fondness, stopping herself just in time from calling out advice. After a few minutes, she lay back down on her recliner, trying to relax and be on holiday. Trying to obey her own instructions.

But she was finding it just as difficult to unwind as Philip. He had woken up that morning with the same anxious frown he'd been wearing when he went to bed. And she'd woken up with the same frustrations. The same mental frustration; the same physical frustration. It was the physical need which was driving her mad as she lay in the sun, outwardly calm and content.

One of the unspoken rules of her partnership with Philip was that they would make love, if not every night of every holiday, certainly more often on holiday than at home. Certainly on the first night. Always on the first night. They needed it, Chloe thought—to celebrate their arrival; to release the tension of the journey; to mark the beginning of a week of pleasure. And, most of all, to establish their coupledom once again. To remind themselves of each other, away from the setting of home, the cosy surroundings which could confuse familiarity with love.

Last night, it hadn't happened. She had reached out to Philip, and he had gently pushed her hand away. She still felt prickles of shock when she thought about it; at the time, she'd felt almost too astounded to be upset. She'd stared up at the high draperies of their bed, thinking, so this is it. This is how bad things have got.

'I'm dog-tired,' Philip had muttered into his pillow, so indistinctly she'd barely been able to make out the words. This had been his excuse. But he hadn't even turned to face her; hadn't even kissed her goodnight. How could Philip—dynamic, cheerful Philip—have arrived at this level of apathy?

'I love you, Chloe,' he'd added, and had gently squeezed her leg. She hadn't replied. That morning, they had awoken separately. They had dressed separately, had breakfasted separately. They had lain on their sunbeds side by side, like polite, cautious strangers. She didn't know how long she could stand it.

It had been months, now. For months, their entire lives had been dominated by this takeover. Everything had become overshadowed by bloody PBL and its plans—until Philip seemed incapable of thinking of anything else. How often had she emerged from a day's work wanting a glass of wine and a hug, to find Philip and his deputy manager, Chris Harris, sitting together in the kitchen, swigging beers and endlessly, fruitlessly speculating. They would speculate about the meaning of the latest memo from PBL; about the latest articles in the newspaper; about the long-overdue Mackenzie report, in which all their fates lay. Just shut up! she wanted to shout furiously. Talking about it won't make any bloody difference! Talking about it won't save your jobs! But still they went round and round, second-guessing the views of unknown, faraway people, reporting nuggets of irrelevant information and repeating confidence-bolstering mantras. 'You can't run a bank without people,' Philip would say, cracking open another pair of beers. 'You just can't do it,' Chris would echo staunchly, raising his bottle to Philip.