The Other Half (18 page)

“Oh, here’s another thought,” Jean added. “If you’re feeling anxious, perhaps it might be worth you having a chat with your GP?”

“Really? What could he do?”

“He could provide a sympathetic ear for starters. Is he nice?”

“Yes, but … I wouldn’t want to waste his time. Still, I suppose he’s always been really helpful about Nathan.”

“And you never know, maybe he can recommend a short spell of counseling or something for both of you. Relate or whatever it’s called.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Why don’t you call today? I know most doctors are pushed for time, so ask for a double appointment, then he should manage more than five minutes with you—that’s what I’d do. After all, better to do it sooner rather than later.”

“Before things get worse.”

“Maybe worse, maybe better. Who knows? It can’t harm. And I speak from experience. Remember how helpful I found my doctor when I was having those anxiety attacks?”

“True.” Maggie recalled that Jean’s fast-paced life had caught up with her at one point, and she’d become horribly panicked about traveling on the subway.

“Anyway, I’d better go, my dear,” Jean said. “I’ve got some silly damn woman who’s probably trying to get through. I’ll call you later, when I’ve had a word. You take care now.”

“I will. And thanks again.”

Afterward, Maggie was aware that one issue she’d brought up on Sunday had remained unexpressed. She hadn’t felt able to ask Jean what she thought because she didn’t want to face talking about it, again. Jean hadn’t brought it up either. But that didn’t mean it didn’t exist, or wasn’t the key to Jamie’s behavior.

Certainly, it’s the one thing that would explain everything, the emotional distance, the preoccupation, the absence, the lack of sexual interest … No, she squashed the thought immediately. She wasn’t going to give head space to
that
possibility.

23

Chloë woke, disoriented. Something was ringing, loud, and as she came to, she realized it was the phone on the bedside table. Even in her hungover state she knew it wouldn’t be wise to answer it.

“James.” He was dead to the world. “You’d better get that.” She shook him.

“Eeuaarghblugh…”

“Phone!” She jammed the receiver to his ear. She could hear a woman’s voice.

“Oh, hi.” At once he was more awake. “Of course I’m all right … Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oh no,
thought Chloë. James wouldn’t speak like that to most people. It must be Maggie. She cringed. Even though his wife sounded tinny down the line, it was the first time Chloë had heard her voice and sensed her presence as real. Maggie sounded worried.

If being in bed with her husband didn’t make her feel bad enough, Chloë felt terrible—her head was thumping, her mouth was dry. Wanting to prolong the high of pleasure, she and James had consumed all the champagne and cocaine, and Chloë had hardly slept a wink. They’d been up till goodness knows when and, judging from her aching limbs, their sexual exploits had meant using muscles not regularly exercised at the gym.

Plus I’ve been bullied by Jean into going to the conference, Chloë remembered. How typical of her not to consider vacations sacrosanct. Crikey, is that the time? I’d better phone her.

Chloë was tempted to hide her head under the pillow until everything went away, but she didn’t want to listen to James talking to Maggie any longer, so she hauled herself out of bed.

Seconds later he joined her in the bathroom.

“That was quick,” she said, squeezing toothpaste onto her brush. It would take a thorough scouring session to remove the ghastly furry feeling in her mouth.

James stood naked next to her at the basin, checking his face to see how rough he looked. “I asked her to call back later. I wasn’t really up for a chat.”

“Me neither, but I’ve got to phone Jean.” Chloë rinsed her teeth with water and spat it into the sink.

“Where’s she staying?”

“The Algonquin.”

“Jesus! You’re kidding?”

“No. Why? Is it very posh?”

“It’s not that it’s posh, it’s near!”

“Oh, I didn’t know. Where is it?”

“It’s on Forty-fourth Street, a bit farther east, but still.”

“Oops! Guess we’ve been pretty lucky.”

“Mmm.” Calming himself, James turned to stand at the commode to have a pee.

I’m sure he’d have been too self-conscious to have done this previously, Chloë observed. We’re definitely more intimate as a result of this spell away together.

Chloë showered at impressive speed, given her fragile state, and was rummaging in her suitcase for clean knickers when James emerged from the bathroom. He looked around.

“This room’s in a right mess.”

Chloë took it in: the empty champagne bottle and the rucked-up sheets were doubtless all in a day’s work for a hotel cleaner, but the cocaine-smeared marble tabletop, the discarded underwear, and the ripped stockings were best not shared with the world. And James’s attempt to escape from the boa had left black feathers everywhere; it was as if a crow had been massacred. She winced. “We’d better tidy up.”

James picked up his watch from the bedside table. “Blast! I’m supposed to be having a breakfast meeting at the Millennium Broadway right now.”

“How convenient,” she said, a touch sarcastically. “Who with?”

“Adrienne Sugarman, the US special projects director.”

“Better get your skates on. You go ahead—we can hardly arrive together anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Chloë couldn’t afford to waste time either, so she refrained from whining that he could lend a hand, and switched into efficient mode, emptying, picking up, folding, and putting away.

Within minutes James was in his suit and poised at the door. “You’re an angel.” He kissed her shoulder.

“I’ll see you there,” she said, turning to peck him on the cheek. That was almost wifely, she thought as she cleaned the table with toilet paper. Then again, given the cocaine smears she was wiping up, maybe not.

*   *   *

Luckily the conference center was just the other side of Times Square, so Chloë was able to finish making both the bedroom and herself presentable and still get there within the hour.

As she pushed her way through the rotating doors, she was thankful for the Whistles suit. The tan skirt and jacket made her appear much more together than she felt.

“Ah, Chloë!” She had barely had time to take in the polished marble, rich mahogany paneling, and sleek leather chairs of the Millennium Broadway lobby before Jean had breezed over, checking her watch pointedly. “You’ve made it. We’d better go in at once.”

The Hudson Theatre was packed. However lousy she was feeling, Chloë had to admit that it was an impressive venue. It was a proper theater, with a circle and an upper circle. The floral plasterwork ceiling was breathtaking, and the stage, with its sweeping deep red velvet curtains, was enough to make Chloë hanker to be up there speaking herself.

“Come on,” said Jean impatiently.

They took two seats on the end of a row and Chloë scanned for James. As the lights dimmed for the presentation, she caught sight of him a few rows ahead, chatting animatedly with a group of older colleagues she didn’t recognize. My, she observed, they all look very important. Come to that, in his smart navy suit James does too … I thought I knew the work side of him, but this is another aspect of his life where I don’t have the full picture.

*   *   *

What a load of nonsense, Chloë griped inwardly as she sat listening to the chief executive banging on about company ethics and “publishing personalities” in accompaniment to her pounding headache. All this corporate stuff wasn’t her bag. And in spite of the air-conditioning, with so many people, the auditorium was very warm. She felt her attention drifting, drifting … her eyelids drooping, drooping …

“
Chloë!
” Jean nudged her. “You could at least have the courtesy to stay awake!”

“Sorry.” Chloë felt like a naughty schoolgirl, but the previous night was catching up with her. There was a pointy pen in the conference pack she’d been handed on the way in and she spent the next hour surreptitiously prodding her knees to stop herself from falling asleep again.

At last they broke for a much-needed coffee. “Can I get you one?” she offered, hoping to make up for her unprofessional performance thus far.

“That would be great,” said Jean. “I need to have a word with Jamie Slater about something personal, so I’ll meet you back here.”

“Right.” Chloë’s heart beat fast at the mention of his name.

“Black, no sugar.”

“Fine,” said Chloë, but her brain was already racing ahead. Just what sort of “personal” matter does Jean want to discuss with James? Jean is one of Maggie’s closest friends, and Maggie seemed distressed when she’d phoned earlier. Maybe she’s found out about us, Chloë panicked. Maybe she’s told Jean! No, she reassured herself; Jean would never have been so normal just now. Even if she’d been sworn to secrecy, there was no way she’d have been able to hide something so major.

She watched Jean make her way down the steps toward where James was sitting, and gently pull him away from his colleagues, as if she didn’t want anyone else to overhear what she was saying. Chloë watched his face. He appeared serious, and nodded, as if to show his tacit agreement. Jean carried on talking for quite a while.

Whatever it’s about, it seems she had a lot to say, thought Chloë, flooded with guilt. This doesn’t look good. It doesn’t look good at all.

24

The doctor’s receptionist consulted the computer screen. “Mrs. Slater,” she muttered, moving the cursor down. “Ah, yes. Remarkably lucky we had a double appointment.” She eyed Maggie as if to say: You don’t appear sick; you should be grateful. “Go on up.”

The practice occupied a tiny picture-postcard cottage opposite Nathan’s school. Ramshackle to the point of tumbling down, it was one of the many houses in the village to which a worn wooden sign D
RIVE
C
AREFULLY
O
VERHANGING
B
UILDINGS
applied. Yet despite their low-tech accommodation and the demands made on them, the three GPs dealt efficiently with reams of local people, and over the years of bringing Nathan, Maggie had found one doctor particularly sympathetic. Now she always asked for Dr. Hopkin.

She mounted the creaky stairs, ducking to avoid a beam, and took the last seat in the waiting area. Two elderly women in the corner were sharing a moan about their ailments—a visit to the doctor’s office seemed as much a chance for a gossip as treatment. Opposite was a sulky-looking teenage boy with severe acne and an overweight man whose pale, blotchy beer gut was protruding from under his T-shirt. He’d be doing himself a favor if he covered that properly, Maggie decided, her aesthetic sense protesting in spite of her tiredness. Lastly, next to Maggie, a harassed-looking mother was trying to keep her two small children amused with the uninspiring selection of toys.

Of course the practice won’t be able to justify the expenditure for new ones, Maggie thought ruefully. It’s such a shame everything has been so affected by a lack of funding.

She picked up an ancient copy of
Babe
and began to flip through it, but as she skimmed the pages of tips on fashion, beauty, and relationships, she realized she wasn’t taking in a word.

Why I am here? she asked herself. They’re so stretched these days in the NHS, and there’s nothing wrong with me physically, unless you count the insomnia … Though it does seem to be getting worse. She looked down at her hands—they were shaking. Maybe the trembling is a sign of growing older, she thought, something I’ll have to get used to?

“Mrs. Slater!” the doctor boomed from down the corridor.

Maggie got up. As she braced herself to speak to him, she had a horrible surge of anxiety. I shouldn’t have come, her inner voice scolded. I’m wasting Dr. Hopkin’s time. Some people are genuinely sick, and here I am, worrying him over worry itself. I should be able to get over this on my own.

Somehow her feet propelled her into the office.

“Hello. What can I do for you today?” The doctor beamed at her. He was in his fifties, with disheveled gray hair and ruddy cheeks, dressed in comforting elephant cord and brushed cotton.

“I’m not sure,” said Maggie, as she took a seat next to his paper-smothered desk.

“Oh.” He sounded surprised. Then he looked at her, frowned, and propped his half-moon spectacles up so that he could focus on his computer screen. “I see you have a double appointment.” He added gently, “So we’ve plenty of time.”

“Um.” Maggie looked down at her hands. They were really shaking now. She could sense Dr. Hopkin looking at them too. He’ll probably assume I’m an alcoholic or a junkie or something, she thought. Perhaps the most disabling symptom would be a good place to start. “I’m not sleeping very well. In fact, I’ve been sleeping really badly.”

“How badly is badly?”

“I guess about half the hours I normally would, and this last week even less than that. It’s not been right for a while.”

Maggie could feel waves of support emanating from the doctor. “I feel exhausted now and I find it hard to concentrate. And I suppose I’ve been feeling pretty um … worried generally.” Suddenly she was crying. It was as if she’d released the floodgates on all her pent-up emotions since Jamie had been away, and once she’d started, couldn’t stop.

Damn it! How silly of me, she thought, but the tears kept falling. I seem to be crying so much at the moment. What a wimp!

At home before she’d left she’d put on mascara and a little gray eyeliner to make herself look more presentable. She pictured her cheeks covered in smears and her shame mounted. She fumbled in her handbag for a tissue, but her hands were so shaky she couldn’t control them. Just talking about her anxiety seemed to be making it worse.

“Here.” Dr. Hopkin handed her a box of tissues.

“Thank you.” Maggie blew her nose.

“Is there any particular reason that you feel so miserable? Something major upsetting you that’s keeping you awake?”

Maggie was silent. It was against her nature to discuss personal issues and she didn’t want to be disloyal to Jamie. She took a deep breath. “I’m lonely,” she said. Perhaps if she avoided mentioning Jamie specifically, the doctor might be able to help without her betraying her husband.