To Have and to Hold (16 page)

Madeleine looked out of the window at the watery sunshine and said: ‘It almost feels like spring.'

The room hummed with the desultory monologues of those who have worked hard all morning. Harold settled behind his
Guardian
.

‘Never guess who's taking up the cello.'

‘Who?'

‘Shane.'

‘Shane?'

Mr Masterman, who did not resemble his name, dozed in his corner. Miss Hasnain, who was new, wrote some notes. Adam, who taught games, lit a roll-up. Just then there was a knock on the door.

Harold called out: ‘Go away!'

There was a pause, then another tap.

‘No!' said Harold.

Finally he sighed, got up and opened the door.

‘Christ,' he said. ‘Sorry. Thought you were a kid.'

A woman stood there: pleasant, forgettable face, now anxious. Pale pink lipstick; neat brown hair; buttoned two-piece. Spotless kitchen; inhibited in bed; Catherine Cookson reader. Nice legs, bet nobody told her; dull shoes. He tried to guess, in a flash, whose mother she must be. He always did this but he was usually wrong. ‘Come in,' he said.

She looked around. ‘Er, is Vivien Meadows here?'

He shook his head. ‘She had to go home. Gas man cometh, she said.'

‘Ah.'

‘You've got a child in her class?'

‘No,' said the woman. ‘I'm her sister.'

He looked at her. ‘Gosh.'

She stood there, undecided. He pointed to the phone.

‘Give her a ring; she should be there by now.'

The woman thought for a moment, then rummaged in her handbag for some change. Yes, thought Harold: could be. Shorter, of course; not so pretty; not the style. But nice mouth like Viv's, no wonder he'd noticed the lipstick. The sort of woman, rounded and complete, who could sit in a staffroom
for years and not be noticed, but when one did one found her a pleasant surprise. Two kids: Bruce and Sally. Not a tooth filling between them, and they wrote thankyou letters on Boxing Day.

Harold watched her at the phone and, thinking of his own children, sighed.

Ken stood at the window. Viv lay on the floor, face down, doing press-ups. Today it was the next room to what now seemed their usual.

She lowered herself up and down. ‘Only a hotel,' she gasped ‘would ever think of having a mustard and maroon carpet.'

Ken, who was putting on his tie, looked down at the shops.

Keys Cut, Ears Pierced
. He thought of Viv at sixteen, having her ears pierced; he flinched at the damage. Keeping his voice light, he turned and said: ‘I once saw a sign saying, “Ears Pierced While You Wait”.'

She collapsed on the floor laughing.

He said: ‘Wouldn't have much choice, would you?' He looked at her as she lay on the floor, pale and slender. She wore red lace briefs; today, for the first time, no bra. He said loudly: ‘Go on!'

She went on with the press-ups. ‘How many do
you
do?'

‘Thirty.'

‘Jesus.' She went on, gasping. He turned away. She stopped and said: ‘My body's starting to feel different, I'm sure it is. It feels fitter.'

He gazed at the dusty window-pane. ‘Mine feels different too,' he said.

‘How?'

There was a silence. Then he said: ‘It feels alive.'

In Viv's empty living room the phone was ringing. Finally it stopped.

Viv, still breathless, pulled on her jeans and jumper. She sat down again, leaning against the bed. Ken hadn't moved from the window.

‘It's so peaceful here,' she sighed, closing her eyes. ‘No phones, no noise. Like we're in a calm bubble. Uncomplicated. At home, everything's such chaos, everybody yelling, the girls wearing odd socks because I can never sort them out.'

Ken turned from he window. ‘They do look a bit of a mess.'

‘What?' She opened her eyes.

‘The girls.'

She stared at him. ‘You can't say that! We're not married.'

There was a silence. Somewhere in the building a door slammed. ‘Of course we're not,' said Ken at last. ‘It was stupid.'

She struggled to her feet and hurried over to him. ‘Ken –' She put her hand on his arm; he jerked away.

‘I've no rights,' he muttered. ‘No rights at all.'

‘Come here.' She touched him again; he pushed her off.

‘You really know how to hurt someone, don't you,' he said. ‘Calm, is it? Nice calm bubble? So delightfully uncomplicated?' His voice rose; he flinched at his own shouting. ‘Well listen to me, Vivien Know-it-all Meadows, you college miss, think you're so clever, let me tell you something. It's bloody complicated!' He roared out the words at her. ‘It's utter bloody chaos!'

They stared at each other, appalled. Then he grabbed her and kissed her, hard. She turned her face away but he wrenched it back. With one hand he pulled up her jumper and pushed her towards the bed. She stumbled, gripping him, and fell back on to the blankets.

Ann sat on the bench opposite Viv's house. The sky had clouded over as if the sun, after shining fitfully all day, had finally become dispirited by the world it had illuminated.

In fact it had started to drizzle. Ann shivered. Viv's car appeared and stopped outside the house. Viv climbed out, just like any mother, with the girls. Ann heard raised voices as the children protested about carrying the shopping in. Viv wore a new pink track-suit. She went into the house with the girls. How could Ann speak, with them there?

But then Viv reappeared, without the girls, to fetch the last bags. Blameless teacher, housewife, mother. How blamelessly harassed she looked. As she unloaded the bags she noticed Ann.
She slammed shut the car door and hurried over, crossing the road and jumping the low wall into the playground.

‘Ann!' she gasped. ‘How nice to see you. Come in, it's raining.'

Ann didn't move. ‘I tried to phone.' She indicated the tracksuit. ‘Never seen you in one of those.'

‘Trying to get fit.' Viv smiled, still out of breath. ‘Come on.'

Ann shook her head. She paused, then said: ‘I just wanted to say I know what's happening.' After repeating the words to herself all day they came out pinched and bright, like stage dialogue.

Viv stared at her, then she moved forward and sat down, heavily, beside her.

‘I don't want to talk about it,' said Ann. ‘All I wanted to ask, in case I put my foot in it – does Ollie know?' She turned. Viv's hair was sparkling with rain; she shook her head slowly. Ann looked down at Viv's pink-clad thighs, speckly now. She stood up. ‘Must go.'

Viv jumped up. ‘But –'

Ann smiled at her and indicated the track-suit: ‘It's not your colour,' she said kindly.

Ollie looked at his watch. 6.30. Across his desk lay scattered the transcripts for his drug abuse piece. All afternoon he had told himself he must start editing them. But the typing seemed so wearingly dense, like a code he no longer had the urge to decipher. When alarmed about this he told himself it was just the effect of three cocktails at lunchtime. That was simple, wasn't it?

He stacked the transcripts to one side. He must go home. It unnerved him that he feared to open his own front door. What would she be doing? Making the children's supper, wearing her familiar jeans? How could he bear to speak?

He paused at the switchboard. Ellie turned.

‘Who's it to be tonight?' he asked.

‘
Fun-loving accountant
.' She grimaced. ‘I'm meeting him in that wine bar you took me to once.'

He thought: I can chat to Ellie, I can banter. I can sound
normal. He asked: ‘How're you going to recognize him – carnation in his buttonhole?'

She shook her head. ‘He says his glasses are broken, so I can tell by the sellotape.'

Ollie laughed. He thought: see, I can laugh. Ellie can't tell there is anything wrong.

He turned to leave. She said: ‘You OK?'

He replied: ‘I'm fine.'

He closed the front door behind him and put down his briefcase. It was raining steadily now; he was wet. For a moment he listened, attentive as an animal sensing danger. Far upstairs he could hear the girls' voices; for once they seemed to be playing in their bedroom. From the living room came the rattle of crockery.

He went in. Viv, in a pink track-suit, stood at the sink, washing up. She turned smiling.

He stood in the doorway and said: ‘You haven't been to that clinic, have you?'

His voice was toneless. He watched her expression change.

‘What?' she asked.

‘You heard me.'

She stood there, clutching the sponge. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Just been checking the facts.'

‘What facts?'

He lowered his voice. ‘You're a lying bitch.'

‘Ollie!'

‘There's no number three hundred and whatsit in Harley Street. I've checked in Kelly's.'

‘But –'

‘Should've tried a bit harder to get your story straight. I might have believed a do-it-yourself kit.'

She moved forward, but stopped at the table.

‘Ollie,' she said.

‘You did it yourself, didn't you? Your way. Four bloody weeks you've been at it.'

‘Listen –'

‘You've been screwing him, haven't you?'

‘No,' she said. ‘I –'

‘You've been screwing him.'

There was a silence. Outside, the rain pattered on the concrete. He willed her, with all his heart, to say no.

Finally she said, in a low voice: ‘Don't put it like that.'

He paused and looked at her. Her cheeks were pink. He wished he was still at the office and that he had never come home. He wished he could do it all again, and come home, and simply not ask her. His heart shrank, cold and beating. he said: ‘What would you prefer?' He put on a cod Parisian accent: ‘You made love?'

‘No!'

He paused. ‘You didn't?'

‘No.' She stopped. ‘I mean . . .'

‘What?' he asked. ‘You mean yes.' He spoke softly. ‘I have been stupid, haven't I?'

‘No!'

‘Really stupid.'

‘Ollie, please try to understand.'

‘Fun, was it?' he asked.

‘Please!'

‘Exciting?'

‘Ollie!'

‘Good, was he? Good at it?'

‘Look –'

‘Bet he couldn't believe his luck. After all these years of fancying you.'

‘He hasn't!'

‘Don't be stupid. You've noticed all right.'

‘He's married to my sister!'

‘Exactly.'

‘He's part of the family!' She still stood at the table, gripping its edges. He moved away to the front window and stood staring out at the rain and the motionless swings of the playground.

He said, without turning: ‘He knows I know?'

‘We haven't talked about that.'

‘We?'
Oh, nice. Already a couple, are you?'

‘No!'

Ollie ran his finger along the dirty woodwork of the window. ‘Christ, he must be laughing.'

‘He's not!'

‘Little prick.'

‘He's terribly worried,' she said

‘Laughing at poor old Ollie, the cuckolded husband. Stuck here while he shafts his wife.'

‘It's not like that!'

‘Even bought him a drink last Sunday,' he said. ‘The turd.'

‘Ollie, you must understand –'

‘Where do you do it? No, don't tell me.'

‘A hotel.'

‘How delightfully sordid.' He rubbed his dirty finger on his trousers, and faced her. She sat, slumped, at the table.

‘No,' she muttered, ‘he –'

‘Got a little ring, have we, from Woollies?'

She raised her head. ‘It's not like that –'

‘Who pays?'

‘He does.'

‘Creep.'

‘Ollie,' she said. ‘This isn't helpful.'

‘All that stuff about the clinic –'

‘But –'

‘Lies, lies.' He couldn't bear to look at her. He turned back to the window. ‘There I am being all supportive, saying what a noble thing you were doing, and you just let me babble on, you little bitch –'

‘Ollie don't!'

She started sobbing. His own window-pane blurred. ‘Poor Viv,' he said, his voice thicker. ‘
You
can't bear it.'

‘I'm only trying to have a baby.'

‘What? Immaculate Conception?'

‘No!' she cried. ‘It's reproduction.'

‘
I
call it adultery.'

He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve, turned round and grabbed the car keys from the dresser. Without looking at her, he walked out of the house.

‘Ollie!' she called, opening the front door. But he was already in the car and fumbling with the key.

Ellie sat in the wine bar, sipping her orange juice – the real thing, with bits in it. At the next table sat a man in glasses, but they were red ones and he'd put his Filofax on the table. Ollie had instructed her about those, and how they went with
kir
and
spritzers
and having little labels on your clothes and being aware. Anyway, this bloke was talking to a girl with a terrific profile and a lot of back showing; now where did you get a tan in April?

Ellie took another sip. She wished she smoked. Anything to look busy, and she'd read the drinks list about twenty times.

Somebody pushed past the chairs and stood at her table. She looked up. It was Ollie. He was breathing heavily and his face was damp. So was his hair.

‘Come on,' he said.

‘But you haven't got glasses.'

He didn't smile. He looked awful. He took her hand. ‘Come on!'

She stood up, bewildered. He led her out; the chairs rocked as they passed.

Ann was in her garden. It was dark, but when she looked up the sky was lurid pink, so pink it hurt her eyes. The trellis had grown taller, and rattled. Down below, in the garden, someone was hiding behind the tubs, which were now as big as urns, on stalks. In the gloom she could see Viv's skirt behind one of them. Viv darted to another.