The Pillow Friend (33 page)

“Yeah, well, I thought I would . . . but I didn't. I didn't like being tied down. I really hated it. And when you didn't seem to believe me, and I thought you weren't going to let me go, I . . .”

“Well, of course I was going to let you go! Who do you think I am? Don't you know me at all?”

“I'm sorry,” she said again, hopelessly, knowing that words would never bring them closer. She wanted him to read her heart. She wished she could read his. An impossible thing to ask, except that lovers down the centuries, all over the world, did manage it, according to what she'd read.

“Just forget it,” he said. “Least said . . . let's get some sleep.”

She lay awake and listened to his breathing change and thought about the huge gulf between fantasy and reality. She thought of how the house had felt to her when she'd come in this evening—how it still felt, that familiar, charged atmosphere. And the silk scarves on the bed. She'd been so sure there was someone she knew in the house. Who had she been thinking of? Someone from her past. Marjorie? Her father?

And then suddenly she knew.

Myles. He was here, alive again.

She wanted to jump up and look for him, but she made herself lie still and think it through. Gray must have found the junk shop; he'd found Myles and bought him for her. All she had to do was wait until Christmas Day and he would be hers again. And then—she knew, because the whole atmosphere in the house told her, despite this night's sexual failure—the magic would happen again.

They had their first major row on Christmas Day.

It was her disappointment which started it, a disappointment which, because it could not be admitted, had become anger. Gray's gifts to her were a necklace, a book and a box of chocolates; no doll. Now her former certainty of Myles' return seemed crazy. Midnight madness. The longing for something which could not be. And what had she been expecting—the return of an object, or of magic? Magic was dangerous. She should know better by now than to wish for it.

She lashed out at Graham because he was there and Myles was not. He responded in kind, his own previously unspoken disappointments and dissatisfactions roiling up and spilling out. There were tears and shouting and unforgivable remarks, cold statements of dislike which seemed utterly final. Although they apologized to each other before bedtime, bad feeling still filled the little house like a poison gas, and they were estranged from each other for most of the week.

On New Year's Eve she couldn't stand it any longer. They had plans to go out in the evening, but it was still afternoon, and he'd been in his room for the past couple of hours, “tidying away a few things before the year ends,” and she'd been seated at her own desk in the bedroom as if with the same intention, yet in fact unable to do anything but brood about the state of their marriage. “Gray, we have to talk.”

He scarcely looked up from his notebook. “What about?”

“Us.”

“What do you mean?” He closed his notebook and put it away in the top drawer, not looking at her.

“You know what I mean. We can't go on like this. We have to do something, or—do you know, we haven't been married long enough to get a divorce?”

“What are you talking about? We're not getting a divorce. If you try to leave me, I'll lock you up.” He rose from his chair and put his arms around her. “Dear heart, what's wrong?”

His sympathy brought tears to her eyes. “I don't know. Things aren't working between us.”

“Aren't they? In what way?”

“Oh, Gray, you know perfectly well. The things you said—”

He let go of her and stepped back. “That's not fair. We agreed to forgive and forget. If you're going to keep throwing things I said in the heat of the moment back at me—you said some pretty harsh things, too.”

“Things haven't been right since.”

“Because you haven't let them be. Because you're still brooding about it—you, not me. And it was you who started it in the first place. If you think there's a problem—”

“We never make love.”

“Oh, and that's my fault? That's totally up to me?”

“I want to. You don't.” She forced herself to go on, determined to have it all out. “You're not really that attracted to me, are you?”

“Not when you're like this, no. Not when you're picking fights and blaming me for your own bad moods. If you want me to feel sexy, you have to give me some encouragement. I didn't get any the last time I tried. You may recall.”

“That was a mistake. I'm sorry.”

“All right, all right. You've said so. Let's forget it. Come on, let's go downstairs, have some coffee.” He sighed. “Then we can talk, since you're so determined we should.”

They spent hours talking that afternoon and evening, managing to get past the danger of a row and the idea of assigning blame or accepting guilt, to talk about shared goals, fears and desires; the future of their marriage.

They went out to dinner, with champagne to celebrate a new beginning, and afterward carried on drinking brandies in the restaurant, and then more in the local pub. Making their way home they paused often on the short journey to kiss.

Agnes glowed with hope. Graham was teasing and amorous as they went to bed, and she touched his erect penis, happy that he desired her.

But he stopped her hand. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” She giggled. “Your lips say no, no, but your cock says yes yes!”

“I'm drunk.”

“Me too. I'm drunk and horny, and so are you.”

“That's right. No, don't, Nancy, I'm serious. It's no good.” He caught her wrists and held tightly. “I want a fuck, that's all. And that's no good. It's not fair to you. We're going to have a new beginning as we promised each other. The real you, the real me. The way I feel now, I could fuck anyone, you could be anyone.”

“I don't mind. I know who I am.” His explanation baffled more than irritated her. A stiff cock, she'd heard it said, had no morals. His, however, seemed to have more moral arguments for restraint than a Jesuit.

“Well, I mind. And you should. I'm sorry, I shouldn't say that when I've just agreed not to write your rules for you. But if you knew how I actually felt, you wouldn't want me fucking you. It would be degrading. You deserve better. You deserve to be made love to properly, and I'm too drunk for that.”

He kissed her, then said, “Good night,” very firmly, and turned his back to her.

She was astonished and angry but also quite drunk. She fell asleep quickly, but not for long. She woke suddenly, uncomfortably dry-mouthed, sensing another presence in the room.

The yellow haze of the streetlights came in through gaps in the curtains, providing enough illumination to show there was no one else in the room. She rolled over on her side to face Graham and he was facing her, watching her through narrowly opened eyes.

She touched his face. She lightly kissed his lips. He did not move at all, but he said her name. Not Nancy, not Agnes, her true name.

A shiver passed through her, for Graham certainly didn't know that name.

“Myles?”

“You called me back.”

“Are you going to stay this time?”

A sigh ghosted through Graham's lips. “I'm here whenever you want me.”

There were too many things to say, too many questions to ask him, to settle on just one. But she also realized it didn't matter what she asked. All she wanted was connection. What she had wanted most when she was seven she wanted still, nearly twenty-three years later.

“Tell me a story.”

In the morning she knew it had been a dream, but also that it was more. It was an opening into another world, and she understood that if she wished she could go through and continue the relationship with Myles.

She chose not to.

Despite the many subtle disappointments of her marriage, this was her real life, one that many people would envy, and she would make the best of it.

It was easier to keep to her decision when she was happy, when she'd had a good day at work, and she and Graham were in harmony. When she wasn't happy, when some petty disagreement or misunderstanding put them at odds with each other, she sometimes lay awake and watched her husband sleeping, and had to grit her teeth against the desire to make him speak to her, to make him, temporarily, someone else.

And, although she had not consciously thought about it for some time, she had not forgotten that Caroline's baby—if it still existed—was due near the end of March. So it was that one rainy evening in March, when her job had less than six weeks to run, as she and Graham sat down at the kitchen table to the meal he had just cooked of pork chops, fried potatoes and cabbage, she spoke the forbidden name out loud, asking, “Do you ever hear from Caroline?”

For a moment he looked as if he didn't know who she meant. Then: “God, no. What do you—that was over ages ago. Why should I? What made you think of her?”

“I just wondered if she'd phoned you.”

“I would have told you if she had.” He looked down at his plate and began to eat.

“I just thought—well, I can't help wondering—I mean, if you never heard from her again—”

“Of course I didn't. What is this—jealousy? Of her? After all this time?” He cocked his head, a wondering expression on his face. He made it sound, she thought, as if they had been together for many years.

“After all this time she might have had a baby.”

“Oh—that. I shouldn't think so.”

“Did you pay for her abortion?”

Wide eyes, partly opened mouth, a face of wounded innocence. “Hey, what is this? What have I done? I would have told you if I heard from her again.”

“Then—”

“I don't suppose she was ever really pregnant.”

“What?”

He ate something. “She was lying. I should have realized at the time, but she could be very convincing. Well, it's her job. She's an actress. And, of course, I had reason to feel guilty.”

“But . . . why would she lie about a thing like that?”

“You don't play poker, do you.”

“You know I don't.”

“It was a last, desperate bid to get me back. As long as I was single she could fool herself into believing she had a chance, but once I got married the stakes were so much higher. What could beat a wife? Possibly, just possibly, a baby. It was the only possible claim she had on me. If she'd talked me into meeting her, she'd have tried her best to seduce me. She always thought that because I fancied her I must love her, or that she could make me love her, through sex. But there's more to love than that.” He put down his knife and fork and reached across the table for her hand. “You're the one I love; you're the one I married. You're my wife. You must see you've nothing to fear from anyone else. The other women are all in the past. You're all I want.”

“Yes . . . I know . . .” She felt trapped by his hand on hers; almost claustrophobic, as if the kitchen had suddenly become too small. “I'm not jealous, Gray. I'm trying to be . . . practical. Because if there is a baby, your baby—”

“There isn't.”

“How can you be sure?”

He sighed. “I can't believe you're so upset. Have you been worrying about it all this time in silence? Look, I knew Caroline; I knew her for a liar. She was always telling me lies, things to make herself seem more important—it was pathetic, really, and I didn't think it mattered, because she never mattered that much to me; it was just the way she operated. They were only little lies, before, but the principle was the same. Anyway, if she ever was pregnant, by me or anyone else, she's certainly not pregnant now, because she's still working. Or she was a few weeks ago. I saw her play reviewed in
Time Out
.”

“What play?”

“God, I don't remember the title. It sounded dreadful.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

He took his hand away from hers, made a face and spoke in a funny voice, “Oh, look, darling, one of my ex-girlfriends has just been called ‘competent' by a reviewer in
Time Out
.”

“You might have said something. It was an awful experience—did you think I'd just forget it?”

“You never said anything.”

“You asked me not to talk about it; you didn't want to hear her name again!”