Stop the Clock (34 page)

‘My mascara’s running,’ she said, ‘I must look like hell.’

‘No, you don’t. You look beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘So do you. Actually even better than your photograph.’

He smiled and wrinkled his nose at her, and said, ‘You know what, I’m starving. Do you fancy ordering something to eat? We could get room service. We could get a bottle of wine, too. To celebrate.’

She drew her knees up to her chin and locked her arms round them.

‘What are we celebrating?’

He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Well, apart from the obvious – which is what just happened . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m guessing that’s the first time you’ve been with someone since you’ve been single.’

‘OK,’ she said, ‘yes, it was. But I don’t drink.’

‘Well then,’ he said, ‘celebrate with a club sandwich. Or scones and jam. Whatever you fancy,’ and he got up off the bed and went in search of the menu.

The bellboy who brought in their food was the one who’d carried Lucy’s bag up an hour earlier. He didn’t look either of them in the eye, plonked the food down on the desk and retreated as quickly as possible.

She realized that the room, which had previously smelt of pine toilet cleaner, now smelt overwhelmingly of sex. Plus, if any more of a giveaway had been needed, she and Jack were now both wearing hotel dressing-gowns.

They ate in a silence that struck her as surprisingly companionable. When he’d finished, he turned to her and said, ‘I’m afraid there’s something I didn’t tell you.’

Her heart sank. ‘Oh God . . . don’t tell me you’re married.’

‘No, of course not. It’s just – you were so straight up with me about having children, and I didn’t tell you about mine.’

She was about as taken aback as if he’d suddenly offered to marry her.

‘I have a little girl,’ he went on, ‘called Ivy. She’s four. Lives with her mum. We split up when Ivy was two – her mum was seeing someone else. She’s married to him now.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘I know. It doesn’t really go with the whole Young Adonis thing.’

Lucy reflected on this for a moment.

‘No,’ she said, ‘but actually, I think I like it. I should have guessed – there’s something quite gentle about you. A bit dad-like, if you don’t mind me saying. I mean, I can imagine you pushing a swing and all that stuff. Do you see much of your little girl?’

‘Oh, yeah. My ex has been pretty good about that. To be honest it’s useful for her, too – she’s got another one on the way. Want to know something funny? It’s because of Ivy I got this hotel deal. First prize in her pre-school raffle. One of the other parents works for the chain.’

‘Pretty good prize I’d say.’

‘Yup.’

‘And was there really absolutely no one else you could have asked to come here with you? No one more your own age?’

‘Well . . . women my age tend to want commitment.’

‘And women my age are grateful for what they can get,’ Lucy said, ‘before it’s too late.’

Jack smiled. ‘Come off it. You’re not even forty yet. Plenty of life in you yet, I’d say.’

‘I went to see my mother this morning,’ Lucy said. ‘She had a stroke last year, and she’s stuck in a nursing home. It’s always a salutary reminder of what’s ahead.’

‘But not just yet,’ Jack said, ‘with any luck.’

‘You know what, I think I’m going to take a shower,’ Lucy said. ‘And then maybe we could go out and have a little stroll round outside? I know it’s pitch black out there, but there’s a full moon, and it looks like a beautiful clear night. And dinner’s not till seven, so we’ve got a bit of time.’

‘Sure,’ Jack said.

She got to her feet, shed her dressing-gown, went into the en suite, turned on the shower and stepped under it.

A moment later Jack got in and stood behind her. His arms reached round her waist. She stiffened, then let her hands rest on top of his and allowed herself to lean against him.

She closed her eyes. She did think of Hannah and Adam in the shower together, but that seemed like a memory from another life, one that was beginning to lose its power to hurt.

They stood there for what seemed a long time, unmoving, as the water hissed and splashed and ran over and down and past them.

NOW THAT MATILDA
had a regular bedtime, Natalie and Richard were theoretically free to snuggle up together on the sofa in the evenings, talk, bond, make love and rediscover what had attracted them to each other in the first place.

In practice they invariably retreated from each other, usually to different rooms. Somehow they never went to bed early, and they certainly never went to bed together. Although the cot was now in the small third bedroom, Matilda still often woke in the night, and they had used this as an excuse for Richard to stick to sleeping in the guest room. Natalie doubted whether this arrangement was sustainable, but she didn’t allow herself to look too far ahead. Meanwhile, they both continued to dance round a great unspoken row.

They got through Valentine’s Day without too much difficulty. They had agreed it would be best to get their own presents, rather than bother with the rigmarole
of providing lists, and so Richard had picked out some new cufflinks and Natalie, who could now fit back into a size 16, treated herself to a new pair of jeans. In the morning Richard went out to get the
Record
and came back with chocolates, which Natalie thanked him for even though she was trying to give them up; in the evening the babysitter turned up, and the restaurant had their reservation and hadn’t put them next to the loos, and they made perfectly adequate conversation over dinner.

Natalie said she was looking forward to going to Cornwall at Easter; Richard said he wasn’t sure if he could get away, and he should really keep on putting the hours in if he wanted to make partner. Natalie said she was apprehensive about returning to work, and Richard reminded her that they were letting her go part-time, and ten months off was a pretty good innings, and anyway, she seemed to be getting a bit fed up with being at home. Natalie wondered if she should have gone for a nursery rather than a quarter of a black-market nanny share with Jessie Oliver from antenatal class, and Richard said he was sure she’d done the right thing.

They made it through to the pudding menus before Natalie’s mobile rang and the babysitter told her Matilda had woken up and wouldn’t stop crying, and could they please come back.

They were not, had never been, a couple who went in for slaps and threats and tears and tempests, and Natalie’s first clear warning that they were on unsafe
ground was the timbre of Richard’s voice – accusing, and rather louder than normal – when she got back from her Tuesday night yoga class to find him waiting for her in the living room.

He was still dressed in his work clothes: a white shirt, dark grey suit and blue tie, which had not been loosened. Next to him on the sofa was a large piece of white sugar paper, which had, until recently, been kept rolled up tight, and was now weakly trying to return to its previous shape.

Richard switched off the TV and said, ‘Natalie, we need to talk.’

‘Is Matilda OK?’

‘Matilda is fine, she’s asleep.’ He picked up the drawing and opened it out. ‘I found this today.’

Natalie reluctantly took in the big breasts, the heavy belly, the strong legs and the posture of frustrated, hampered waiting. Somehow, even though she was no longer pregnant, it was still true to life; Adele had seen her accurately, seen something more than the way she looked, and had captured it.

‘I don’t think you would have ever told me about this. Would you?’ Richard said and let the drawing fall back on to the sofa.

‘I just . . .’ Natalie swallowed. ‘It was just something she suggested. You know she was really into art, and painting and everything? I thought it would be . . .’ She trailed off. What could she say?
Fun? Novel? Different? A way to pass the time?
Anything and everything would sound incriminating.

Richard crossed his arms and shook his head.

‘Natalie,’ he said, ‘I know you’re lying. It’s blindingly obvious that something happened.’

Natalie grabbed for the piece of paper. ‘Oh come on, like what? I was due to give birth any minute when she did this. I mean I was already overdue. But if it bothers you, I’ll get rid of it, OK?’

She tore the piece of paper right across – straight down through her pregnant belly – and then quartered herself, bisecting her limbs and torso. Then she screwed the pieces up into a ball, marched through to the kitchen and slung them into the bin with last night’s potato peelings and dirty nappies.

‘There. All gone,’ she said as she went back into the living room, slapping her hands against each other as if brushing off dirt. ‘Happy now?’

Richard sighed. ‘If I hadn’t found it you would never have done that. You’d have kept it. As a little memento. A trophy. What difference does it make, whether it’s in the wardrobe or in the bin? You still hid it.’

‘I’d actually forgotten all about it,’ Natalie lied. She sat down next to him and tried for a more jocular tone. ‘So what prompted you to start turning out the wardrobe, anyway?’

Richard folded his arms. ‘I wasn’t turning anything out. I was looking for some painkillers. You finished up the packet in the bathroom cabinet and put it back even though it was empty, which is the kind of thing you do quite a lot, Natalie, because you’re so wrapped up in yourself that half the time you’re barely aware of what’s in front of you. I know you sometimes keep
a stash of medicine in the wardrobe, so I checked in there. And you know what? When I found that picture, part of me was shocked, but another part of me wasn’t at all surprised.’

He adjusted his glasses again and peered at her, and she had a glimpse of what it would be like to be one of his clients. People came to him, she knew, when they were desperate, and often when bankruptcy had long since become inevitable. Yet, even at the crowded court hearings at which their failed businesses were wound up, they would often plea for more time – another two days; a creditor would come through; a new order would be confirmed – and the judge, weary of excuses, having heard it all before, would chivvy them along and call for the next case.

‘Natalie,’ Richard said, ‘did something happen between you and that woman?’

For a moment Natalie was tempted to deny it, to prevaricate, to ask him to define his terms. Then she said, ‘It did. Just the once. I’m sorry.’

She wanted to add, It was a mistake, a one-off; but she knew he would say, What, just like the time before? So instead she said, her voice trembling slightly, ‘It didn’t mean anything.’

‘Can I ask when?’ Richard asked.

Natalie swallowed. ‘It was the night I went out with drinks for them, with the antenatal group mums, back in the summer. I went back to hers for a little bit afterwards. It was, you know . . . it was nothing really.’

Richard groaned something that sounded like ‘Oh God!’ and jolted upright and paced away from her. She
stood too and moved towards him, and he spun round and shouted, ‘How could you do that to me? How could you do that to all of us? Your parents were here babysitting and you took it as an opportunity to . . . How could you be such a fucking selfish bitch? I could kill you!’

He had grabbed her by the shoulders and his face was inches away from hers; she had never seen it so distorted by rage and hate. And then, as quickly as he had seized her, he let her go. He stumbled back to the sofa where he sat still for a moment before beginning to cry – awful, wrenching, unpractised gasps and sobs that made his shoulders shake and his face stream with mucus.

She sat down next to him and waited, not knowing what else to do. After a while he took a red spotted handkerchief out of his pocket – he always carried a handkerchief with him; it was one of the rituals of their relationship that he would pass it over to her whenever something got the better of her and set her off, because she never had one.

He took his glasses off and wiped his face and blew his nose. Then he dried his glasses and put them back on and looked at her.

‘Richard,’ she said, ‘I know this sounds as if it can’t possibly be true, under the circumstances, but—’

‘Don’t say it,’ he interrupted. ‘I don’t want to hear it. Don’t sit there and tell me that you love me, but you’re not in love with me. Don’t tell me that you love me like a brother, or that I’m your best friend. I’m not your brother and I’m not your friend.’ He stared down at his hands and blinked as if to clear his vision. ‘What have
you done to me? I could have . . .’ He looked up at her again. ‘I could have hurt you, Natalie. I’m not sure I can do this any more. You’re turning me into someone I don’t want to be.’

‘But it was nothing,’ Natalie whispered.

‘Oh, Natalie. If you can’t be honest with yourself, what chance is there that you’re going to be honest with anyone else? I don’t want to spend years of my life wondering and then find out that you were just denying yourself all along. Don’t cheat on yourself, Natalie. Don’t sacrifice yourself. If you do we’ll end up hating each other. And right now I don’t hate you. I feel . . . sorry for you.’

‘I’ll go and talk to a counsellor,’ she said. ‘I’ll work through it. I’ll sort it out.’

‘I suppose I should probably go too,’ he said. ‘Will you find someone? Find out what we have to do?’

‘I will,’ she said, and he nodded and another raw breath shuddered out of him, as if he was about to start crying again.

Did blessings always brighten as they took their flight? She had been tiptoeing round Richard for months and yet now she was suddenly reminded of how benign, how fair, how fundamentally reasonable he was.

If they did break up, and were open with their families and friends about why, he would be devastated, and at least part of his suffering, mixed in with grief, would be humiliation: the humiliation of being found wanting, and of becoming someone whom colleagues and acquaintances and fellow alumni would gossip about, for a season, and not always sympathetically.

But then how might his life take shape if she were to formally remove herself from it? He was the archetypal family man – affectionate, patient, decent, steady – and, despite his own misgivings, he was successful: he was a catch. Surely, by and by, someone would feel for him, and want to make it up to him: someone who wasn’t perpetually thwarted, someone who would be happy to take care of him.