Trio (26 page)

‘How long?’

‘What?’

‘How long have you been fucking Joanna?’ She swore to shock him.

‘Kay, really.’

‘The truth, Adam. How long?’

A pause.

‘A couple of months.’ He cleared his throat.

‘When did it start?’

‘Kay . . . I don’t . . .’ He fell quiet.

‘Don’t remember? Why not? Do you sleep with the neighbours often? When?’

‘Why?’ He said softly.

‘When?’

‘Easter.’ he cleared his throat again. Four months, not two. ‘The dinner dance.’

At the Tennis Club. Kay had left early so their babysitter could get home. ‘But Ken was there?’ The four of them had sat together.

Silence.

‘You didn’t take her home. Where then?’

‘In the gardens.’

She lit a cigarette, the flare from the lighter illuminating her face, the flame just catching a wisp of hair. She smelt the acrid stench as it shrivelled up, a tiny crackling sound.

‘Where else?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Did you do it here?’

‘No,’ he said quickly.

Liar. ‘Adam?’

‘No,’ he insisted.

‘Where else?’

‘Joanna’s.’

‘That weekend at Southport,’ she said flatly. ‘After the picnic? When we went horse riding?’

‘Kay, please, don’t.’

‘Tell me, Adam.’

‘Yes,’ he said and sighed.

She felt her past unravelling. The memories distorted now by the image of them having sex. Bitterness flooded her anew. Joanna had lent her a stole that weekend. They’d all got drunk in the chalet bar. She’d been wearing Joanna’s stole and Joanna had been borrowing her husband. How ironic.

‘Since then, how often?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Lost count.’

‘What’s the point,’ he yelled, ‘dragging it all out. It’s not doing you any good. I’m sorry. What more can I say?’

‘The point,’ her voice trembled with fury, ‘the point is that I have a right to know. To know the truth. To know exactly what you have been doing. In her arms and between her legs. Twice a week, more?’

‘No.’

‘Once a week?’

He said nothing.

‘And what do you like? When you get together? Fast or slow? Do you usually do it in the lounge or was today an exception? Do you satisfy each other?’

‘Kay, that’s enough!’ he shouted.

She knew it would never be enough. No matter how many details she had she would never believe that he’d told her the whole truth. But she kept on.

‘Who started it?’

‘It’s not that easy . . .’

‘Someone must have made the first move, that night at the Tennis Club. You went outside together. Who suggested that?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Oh, come on, Adam!’

‘I was drunk.’

‘That’s handy. Drunk but not incapable.’

‘She tripped, I helped her.’

‘How gallant!’

‘We didn’t plan it, Kay. It just happened.’

‘And today? Does Ken know?’

‘No.’

‘Because he’s been unfaithful too, you know. Did Joanna say? With Bev, last time I heard. Regular Peyton’s Place round here, isn’t it? Must be catching. Have to hope none of you has picked up anything nasty, won’t we? Spread like wildfire.’

Silence again. She drew on her cigarette, listened to the sizzle of tobacco. ‘Do you love her?’

‘No. It’s just a silly fling. It got out of hand. I never meant to hurt you. Neither of us did. I’ll make it up to you.’

What a stupid expression. How could he ever do that? He’d ruined it. Ruined everything. No matter how good things were in the future he had taken the one thing that you couldn’t repair and damaged it. Time might reduce the sting and erase the clarity of the details but she would never trust him again. He had broken her trust and broken her heart.

And as for Joanna, she couldn’t bear to think of that too. All those confidences, Joanna’s sardonic tone, sharing secrets. All a front, a con.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she said. ‘There’s blankets in the spare room.’

‘What are we going to do, Kay?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I really don’t know.’

Joanna had the barefaced cheek to turn up at Faith’s coffee morning two days later. When she arrived, Kay had two urges – she wanted her to slap her, she wanted to run and hide. Of course, she did neither, she ignored her completely and gave a tight smile when Joanna made one of her acerbic remarks that made the others laugh. It’s as though nothing has happened. Kay was incredulous. So blasé about it. She hated her, with her flip comments and her boutique clothes and her rotten deceit.

Kay left early, exhausted at the strain of maintaining a facade. She was halfway home when Joanna caught up with her.

‘Kay.’

‘Go away.’

‘Let me explain.’

‘Go away. I don’t know how you dare.’

‘Don’t be like this.’

‘How do you bloody well expect . . . !’ She broke off determined not to be drawn into talking about it.

‘Some of us make mistakes.’ Joanna put out her hand to touch Kay’s forearm, Kay wrenched her arm away.

‘We can’t all be saints,’ Joanna flared up.

Kay flinched. Was that how she saw her, how they saw her? Goody two shoes? ‘Leave me alone. I don’t want to see you again. Don’t come to my house and don’t even look at my husband or I’ll make sure everyone knows what a slut you are, including Ken.’

Joanna gave up – contempt and then resignation crossed her face. She turned away.

Kay continued home, trembling with outrage.

She buried their friendship: when she chanced upon Joanna at the shops or the park or in Church she treated her like a stranger: more than that, cut her dead. Inside, she seethed with bitterness. Over the weeks that followed, Kay gradually engineered it so that Faith and she spent time together and drifted apart from the larger group of women. She mentioned that Joanna was too flip and implied that she had been bitching about people behind their backs. She told Faith that there was never a chance to have a proper chat in a big crowd.

She found managing the children and running the house increasingly hard, she felt tired and irritable but had trouble sleeping too. She made an appointment at the doctor’s. He prescribed tablets, they would take the edge off things, he said, calm her nerves.

Slowly, begrudgingly, she resumed her relationship with Adam. As time went on there were moments when she forgot the damage that had been done, but she was aware that her love for him was tainted. And any affection and forgiveness was tempered by an abiding lack of trust and a current of suspicion that played through her all the time.

Caroline

He hated the visits. The first time he went, Caroline refused to speak to him, face blank, eyes heavy. He made an effort to talk but his words soon petered out. He sat and held her hand and tried to cut out the sights and sounds and smells around them.

After a week he asked the nurse if he could see the doctor but was told he’d need a separate appointment for that. He made one. Aware it would mean even more time away from the business.

The doctor said much the same as the first psychiatrist had. It was a question of time, she was responding well. He thought of Caroline’s comatose state and wondered. Quieter than the creature who had shrunk from him, but better? The doctor couldn’t tell how long she’d need. It can be weeks or months. You may need to make arrangements at home. Paul nodded.

When he got back, his mother had tea ready – fish in parsley sauce, mash and peas. He explained the situation to her, he knew she couldn’t stay indefinitely. She offered to take Davey back with her until Caroline was well.

He hated the idea of of being parted from the baby as well as his wife. He shook his head, in despair rather than defiance.

‘Paul, it’s either that or get someone to live in.’

‘Which we can’t afford,’ he replied. ‘We’re already behind on orders. If I hire anyone it’ll have to be for the nursery. Caroline worked so hard. Maybe we were too ambitious, got too big too fast. If we sold now—’

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ His mother put her knife and fork down to talk. ‘You were only saying at Christmas how promising things looked. You might not be able to do anything for Caroline at the moment, that’s down to the doctors, but what you can do is make damn sure that when she does come home she’s coming back to a thriving concern. Sell up!’ she snorted.

‘Point taken,’ he replied.

‘Self-pity never built prosperity.’ She returned to her meal.

‘I said, point taken,’ he repeated.

Via one of the greenhouse suppliers Paul found a nurseryman who’d recently retired. Arthur was delighted to come and work on a temporary basis. Retirement had been the biggest shock of his life. And his wife’s. Eileen Wainwright took Davey back to the Dales and Paul worked long hours catching up with the business and doing what he could in the sheds.

Caroline’s manner during his visits began to vary. Often she was dull and withdrawn, looking at him with the same indifference that she had to her appearance. Her eyes were frequently narrowed – apparently the drugs affected them, making them less light-tolerant – and her hair unkempt. Her clothes appeared to be thrown on and were sometimes stained. Her only interest seemed to be in the cigarettes he brought her. Her fingers were stained yellow and even though he smoked himself he could smell the stale nicotine on her. He took her flowers and sweets too but the cigarettes were what she had most need of. Sometimes she would be excitable, her face flushed, her pupils shrunken, eyes glittering. She would talk breathlessly about inconsequential things, giggling inappropriately. He realised the medicines were responsible. She rarely mentioned Davey or asked about the business.

After a second month he asked to see the psychiatrist again. It was a different man. He was filling in for Mr Jeffreys, who had been taken ill himself.

‘Mrs Wainwright.’ He looked at the bundle of notes then at Paul. ‘How have you found her?’

Paul told him. ‘And I still don't understand why she . . . got like this.’

‘Ah, if we knew that . . .’ The doctor smiled ruefully. ‘We don’t really understand what is at the root of this sort of disturbance. Even in the medical profession you’ve different theories doing the rounds. Some argue there’s a physical imbalance, a chemical reaction in the brain, and that might be passed on from one generation to another.’ With a chill, Paul thought of Davey. ‘But other people argue that social circumstances are more important, that events happen to an individual and pressure builds up and this is the explosion, if you like. Anything might tip the balance. Of course, relinquishing a child can’t be easily borne, that must take its toll.’

‘Pardon?’ Paul frowned.

‘Giving the baby up for adoption.’

‘We haven’t given him up. He’s at my mother’s.’

‘Not this—’ He stopped short, closed his eyes and balanced his head momentarily on his fingertips.

Paul stared at him. ‘Caroline had a baby adopted.’

‘I’m terribly sorry Mr Wainwright, I assumed you knew – the notes . . .’

‘Oh, my God!’ He rubbed at his chin with his hand, got halfway out of his chair, knocking his stick down in his haste. He sat back down.

‘When?’

‘I can’t say any more. I’ve said more than I should have. I’ve spoken out of turn. Please accept my apologies. I’m sure your wife only wanted to spare you. She was probably ashamed of . . .’

Dear God. Caroline. Why had she never . . . Making out that Davey was the first. That he was her first. Dear God. Why couldn’t she have just told him?