What Will Survive (19 page)

‘Why do you keep all this junk in here?' he grumbled, snapping shut the glove compartment. His head dropped back and sideways, and a moment or two later Aisha heard a couple of grunting snores.

She drove through another village, past an eighteenth-century stone mansion which fronted the road and a pub that served Thai food — precooked and microwaved, according to Tim, who had once taken a client there, or so he claimed. It was around the time he had started behaving as though he had something to hide, finishing phone calls the moment Aisha walked into a room, announcing business trips at short notice and displaying bursts of high spirits that drew surprised looks even from the boys. Aisha had found herself staring at the couples they socialised with, experiencing a hollow feeling in her chest and wondering if one of the women was behaving differently towards him — with secret knowledge or intimate gestures. Apart from a brief episode before they got married, she had never had any reason to doubt Tim, and it was always possible that a site meeting was taking longer than he anticipated or he had stayed on for supper with a potential client. Aisha tried to ignore her suspicions, resisting the temptation to behave like a spy, but one afternoon it all became too much and she burst into tears on the phone to Iris Benjamin.

‘Aish, are you all right? What on earth's happened?'

Shocked by her tears, Aisha tried to explain on the phone, then gave in to Iris's suggestion that she should drive over to the cottage. Iris heard the car and was waiting for Aisha at the front door as she parked behind her friend's old Peugeot.

‘Hi, sweetheart,' she said, giving Aisha a hug. ‘You go and sit down and I'll bring you a nice cup of mint tea.'

Iris went into the kitchen and Aisha turned into an L-shaped room with a sofa, armchairs and dining table. There was clutter everywhere. Iris collected things: strange little paintings, an ostrich fan, a silver and coral necklace which she had draped over a vase on the mantelpiece. To the right of the fireplace, balanced on one leg like a dancer, was a life-size metal sculpture of a woman, a collection of amber bracelets on her raised arm. Aisha lowered herself on to the sofa, put a cushion behind her head and shook off her white loafers. She was wearing capri pants and she curled her feet next to her body, absent-mindedly fingering the lilac polish on her toenails. A moment later, Iris returned with two mugs which she set down on the floor.

‘OK,' she said, taking one of the chairs. Behind her dark hair, amber glowed in the soft afternoon light. ‘What's up? You look terrible. For you, I mean.'

Aisha reached for her mug. ‘I feel such a fool — I may be imagining the whole thing.'

Iris looked at her compassionately. ‘That's not like you. Anyway, it doesn't matter what you say here. Go on.'

The tea was made from fresh mint and had crushed leaves floating in it. Aisha took a couple of sips. ‘It's Tim — well, I told you on the phone. I think he's having an affair.'

A breeze brought in sweet scents from the garden, where jasmine and honeysuckle were in flower over the open French windows. When she lifted her head, Iris was immobile, her hands on her denim skirt, reminding Aisha of her mother. Zulaykha had practised at home, like Iris, and Aisha and her sister sometimes used to creep past her room, hoping to get a glimpse of her at work, before running up to the top floor to play at being their mother and one of her clients. They had very little idea what
went on in these mysterious sessions, until they were much older, but they argued over whose turn it was to impersonate Zulaykha and the nervous strangers who came to the house on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays: ‘How are you today?' May would ask Aisha solemnly, hands clasped in her lap. ‘What did you have for breakfast? What would you like for tea?'

‘This isn't a consultation,' Aisha said hurriedly.

‘Sorry — habit.' Iris unclasped her hands and shifted in her chair, crossing her brown legs. ‘How long has it been going on, this affair?'

‘I don't know. I mean, he's been behaving oddly for weeks.'

‘How do you mean?'

Aisha shrugged. ‘Going to meetings, conferences — you know how he hates all that. I was about to say being nice to me and the boys, but that's unfair. He doesn't — he lives in his own world. It's just his way.'

Iris waited.

‘I mean, I could be completely wrong. Just because he's more — outgoing. I can't think of the right word. I shouldn't be complaining, should I? I've always wanted him to take more interest in, you know, everyday things. Except that — it feels as though he's being nice to me because his mind's elsewhere.' She pulled a face. ‘Don't, for God's sake, say anything about an early midlife crisis!'

Iris allowed herself a brief smile. ‘I wasn't going to. What you've talked about is your feelings, and I'm wondering if you can give me any examples. What's made you think like this.'

Instead of answering directly, Aisha blurted out: ‘We've been together more than twenty years. Nothing like this has ever happened, apart from that time just before we got married.'

‘I'd forgotten that. What did happen?'

‘Oh, it's ancient history. There's been nothing like that since.' She added fiercely: ‘No, really, I would have known. Just because it's not as passionate as it was — well, it's not passionate at all, if you really want to know, but that's true of any long relationship. Isn't it?'

‘It depends on the relationship. It's not as though you're together so much you get bored with each other. That's often the problem with the people who come to me professionally. You go on these long trips —'

‘Tim hates it. The other day I heard him call it my Mother Teresa act.'

‘He said that?'

‘Yes.'

‘He's envious, of course.'

‘Envious? Of what?'

‘Come on, Aish.' Iris's eyes narrowed. ‘The fashion thing he didn't have to take seriously. It's not a real job — in his eyes, I mean. I always had the impression he was quite happy when you were at some show in Paris. It wasn't a challenge to his masculinity, even if it paid the bills.' She saw Aisha's expression and exclaimed: ‘Sorry, sweetie, but I am a therapist. What I'm saying is he could rationalise it by telling himself he's the one with the talent — a prophet isn't recognised, blah blah blah.'

Aisha flinched.

‘But now you're making a huge difference to people's lives. Come on, you know you are. I wouldn't be surprised if he finds it unbearable.'

Aisha said incredulously: ‘So you think he's getting back at me?'

‘Not consciously. But he wouldn't be the first. Who's the woman, by the way?'

Aisha turned to stare at the garden. On the path next to the pond Iris's elderly dog had stretched out and gone to sleep, his feathery tail twitching gently as he dreamed. ‘How's Ginger?' she asked.

‘Very, very old. I'm trying to prepare Clara.' Iris looked sad for a moment. ‘This is probably his last summer.'

‘Poor old lad. I wish we'd had a dog.' Aisha drank from her mug and set it down on the floor. ‘I've been tormenting myself about who it could be. It might be Susie or more likely Sylvia, I can't imagine him making a great effort — unless it's someone he's met through work.' Her voice falling almost to a whisper, she added: ‘He was very cheerful when he came back from Edinburgh last weekend. He tipped his dirty clothes on the bedroom floor and when I picked them up, I could smell something. Cigarettes — and Obsession.'

‘But he hates smoking — oh, is that what Sylvia wears?'

Aisha nodded. ‘But what was she doing in Edinburgh? If she was there at all. What am I supposed to do, ring her and make some remark about Princes Street?'

‘Well —'

‘Someone's hung up the phone a few times, I didn't tell you that, did I? You see what it's doing to me? I mean, for God's sake, how many people wear Obsession? But even if it is someone else, someone I know nothing about, I can't bear the waste. All those years we've spent together and it's going to end like this?'

Iris blinked. ‘You're thinking about a separation?'

‘I — how can we? What would happen to the boys?'

‘People do, with children younger than yours.' Iris paused, then said gently: ‘Clara was eleven when I split up with Bob.'

Aisha flushed. ‘Oh, I'm sorry. You had an awful time.'

‘Yes, but it wasn't me who wanted a divorce.'

‘I didn't say anything about a divorce!'

There was silence.

Iris said, ‘Sure?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Just that you're obviously very upset, but I'm not sure if it's about Tim or being betrayed — sorry, I don't like that word, it's too judgemental. I'm talking about the effect it's having on you, all this suspicion. Are you sleeping?'

‘Not much, no.'

‘No wonder you look so tired. Aish, you have to admit you and Tim lead pretty separate lives. That's been going on for ages. Try to put aside the hurt for a moment. I'm wondering what you really want.'

Aisha said nothing but she didn't deny what Iris had just said. Choosing her words carefully, Iris carried on: ‘You're still young, the boys are just about grown up. For me, the question isn't so much whether Tim's seeing someone else as whether you want to spend the rest of your life with him.'

‘I know you don't like him.'

‘This isn't about me. I'm not saying it's easy, either. Do you ever see a single woman, a single mother, at all those dinner parties you and Tim get invited to?'

‘No, but it's not as if I'd miss them. God, if I never had to stuff twelve green peppers again I'd be in heaven.'

Iris grinned. ‘OK, point taken.'

‘On the other hand, it's not as if we fight all the time. It's not — unbearable. I mean, when I think of all the people in the world who go to bed hungry every night —'

Iris threw back her head and laughed.

‘What's so funny?'

‘I've never heard that before. The children, yes, but not staying together because of world poverty.'

‘I didn't mean —'

‘I know. I'm sorry.'

Aisha said impatiently: ‘I'm not worried about Ricky, even assuming for a moment you're right about... everything. He'll be fine, whatever happens. But Max — you know how Tim gets on at him for the least thing. He already seems to have decided Max is going to make a mess of his life. It's so unfair, when he's fallen out with so many people himself. You know he won that prize years ago? I really thought he was going to revolutionise British architecture. I mean, he told me he was! But something always goes wrong.'

Iris inclined her head. ‘I've never been sure whether he's a neglected genius or it's all bullshit.' She corrected herself: ‘Self-delusion, I should say.'

‘Well, he's trying to do something original and that's not easy. He takes criticism so badly —' Aisha saw Iris's face. ‘All right, I know he's self-obsessed. I don't want to be too hard on him, that's all.'

‘Let's get back to you. Have you ever been... attracted to someone else? You meet so many people, it would only be natural.'

Aisha flushed for the second time. ‘I haven't been unfaithful, if that's what you mean.'

‘Darling, I'm not here to judge —'

‘I haven't,' she said flatly.

‘I believe you, but would it be so wrong if you were? You're human and we all have the same needs — sex, love, affection.' She broke off and stared at Aisha, who had slipped her feet into her shoes and was getting up from the sofa. ‘What're you doing?'

Aisha avoided her gaze. ‘I'm sorry, Iris, I didn't realise the time. Max'll be home —'

‘Aisha, wait. Have I said something that's made you uncomfortable?'

‘No, but I promised to take him to that new computer shop in Minehead. He wants to buy a game or something.'

Iris got up, suspecting from Aisha's voice that she was on the verge of tears. ‘You haven't finished your tea. Call him. I'm sure it's not urgent. You can do it tomorrow.'

Aisha reached for her bag and moved towards the door. When she turned, she had composed herself. ‘Thanks, Iris,' she said, ‘but you know I always make a point of not letting him down.'

‘You never let anyone down, least of all Max.'

‘That's nice of you, but —' She hesitated, her cheeks still flushed. ‘I don't find it easy, talking like this.'

‘No one does.' Iris moved towards her and they embraced. ‘Listen, sweetheart, you know you can call me any time.'

‘I will. Why don't we have lunch next week? My treat.'

When Aisha arrived home, she went upstairs to the first floor and let herself into a bedroom they had never used. The old hotel wallpaper, pink and mauve flowers on a brown background, was still intact and there was a lilac handbasin in one corner, but Aisha thought she could put up with that. Tim was away on yet another trip and she immediately began moving her clothes, clock radio and books from their bedroom to the little room at the end of the house, telling the boys she was suffering from insomnia and didn't want to disturb Dad. When he returned, a couple of days later, the move was complete and Aisha did not allow herself to dwell on the emotions that flitted across his face as she told him what she had done. Not long afterwards, Tim had gone through violent mood swings, arguing with Max and spending most evenings alone in his office — working on an urgent project, he said, though Aisha never found out what it was. Then he snapped out of it, suddenly flourishing newspaper articles about long weekends in Rome and Lisbon, and forcing Aisha to think quickly to avoid being on her own with him. ‘You and Dad OK?' Ricky asked one evening as they walked arm in arm along the beach and Aisha was circumspect, careful not to burden him with too much adult knowledge.