Young Wives' Tales Part 38

'Yes,'I reply hotly, then I pause and add, 'probably.'

'Maybe,'says Susanne; she looks sceptical. 'Or maybe you'd have decided that the boys didn't like you dating the headmaster, or perhaps you found it awkward at the school gate, or feasibly on closer intimacy you'd have found his laugh to be irritating. I'd bet my bottom dollar, Rose, you'd have found some excuse to finish it.'

'Why would I do that?'

'You tell me. Because you like being alone? Because you still want Peter? Because you hate yourself so much that you think allowing your youth to seep away in an endless stream of missed possibilities is acceptable? I don't know. I'm stumped.'

Her words are brutal, all the more so because the thoughts she's articulating are ones that I have had. In the dead of night when thoughts become fears and reason becomes elusive I have wondered the same things.

'Maybe you secretly think the news of Lucy's affair was pretty convenient for you. The first favour she's done you,'concludes Susanne. She probably realizes that she's said as much as I can take, because within the same breath she asks, 'Now who wants pudding? The tiramisu is fabulous here.'

While Helen and Susanne think about which dessert they'd prefer I chew on their words. I feel sick with the possibility that Susanne has offered an insight so accurate that it feels like a violation. Is it unnatural to divorce in silence? I do often feel used or overlooked but have I ever said so? Even once? No, I haven't. I always wear a cheery demeanour. Does Peter have any idea how much damage he caused? I doubt it. He's unlikely to have given the situation much thought; besides, I do my best to rea.s.sure him constantly that everything is fine. I tell him that the boys are fine, that I'm fine, that him living round the corner to us is fine, that sending his daughter to my kids'school is fine. Well, it's not fine. Not all of it. Not all of the time. It's not my fault that Peter left but perhaps it is my fault that he doesn't know how much suffering has occurred as a consequence.

Is it in my power to put a stop to my feelings of hurt and anger?

I'm amazed that my friends don't want to know what I am going to do with my choice piece of gossip. They don't seem to care whether I plan to expose Lucy or not. It's obvious that they don't care about Peter and his domestics. They care about me. And Peter and his domestics have nothing to do with me. They haven't for a long time.

Since the wedding reception I have been frantic and resentful. I have done nothing other than churn over the past and imagine glorious showdowns where I expose Lucy and devastate Peter. But in reality I have done nothing other than make a single snide comment to Lucy, in order to let her know that I know her torrid secret. Even then, I'm not certain she heard me. The truth is I am not sure what I want to do with this knowledge. Even in my wildest fantasies I never imagine my breaking up Peter and Lucy will mean that Peter will return to me. That would be ridiculous. A step too far and not what I want. So what do I want? As I spoon delicious light and creamy tiramisu into my mouth I consider everything Susanne and Helen have said. They are right about many, many things, but it strikes me that there's one thing Susanne got completely wrong.

I could never imagine Craig's laugh becoming irritating.

48.

Tuesday 12 December

John

Barefoot children with teatowels on their heads scuttle past me at breakneck speed. I am tempted to yell, 'No running in the corridors,'which terrifies me as it's such a sensible and grown-up thought for me to have.

I pop my head around a cla.s.sroom door and spot Mrs Foster, the teacher who directed me to Craig's office back in September. She's surrounded by a group of little girls wearing pillowcases tied at the waist with tinsel. She's attaching wings and haloes and it's clearly a tricky job, because the girls are phenomenally excited. They bounce and fidget; it's a miracle there are not more casualties of safety-pin p.r.i.c.ks. I wave to her across the sea of blonde heads and she beams back, recognizing me in an instant.

'Ah, Mr Harding, Mr Walker's pal. How lovely to see you again. Have you come to watch the nativity?'I nod. 'You made a splendid job of the scenery. We've never had a more authentic backdrop.'

'Glad to help. Have you seen Mr Walker?'

We are both doing that thing that adults do around kids. We're using t.i.tles and surnames in an attempt to trick the kids into thinking we command respect and might be in control.

'He's probably in the hall, greeting parents. We're serving mince pies and mulled wine before the performance this year. We used to leave it until afterwards but we've discovered that if the parents have a little seasonal spirit inside them they are less likely to punch one another as they grapple for front row seats.'

I smile and turn, to set out to find Craig. I call over my shoulder. 'Break a leg, Mrs Foster.'

The school hall is heaving. It's frosty outside so the parents are all insulated with large coats, but the mums are keen to disrobe and reveal their new outfits, bought especially for the nativity performance. The fathers, therefore, are left balancing bulky coats, gloves, hats and scarves while the mothers daintily concentrate on balancing a paper plate with a mince pie and a paper cup of mulled wine. The parents are possibly even more excited than the tiny angels. The mothers are gleaming, chatty and slightly manic. They cannot wait to see their budding Robert De Niros and Nicole Kidmans pace the boards. The fathers catch each other's glance and roll their eyes at one another in mock despair at their wives'enthusiasm but each one is armed with a camera and camcorder.

I can't see Craig but I do spot Connie, almost instantly.

It's like it always has been for the two of us. We are in a crowded room and somehow we pick one another out, we are drawn to one another maybe it's an animal instinct that identifies attraction or danger. She turns to me in slow motion and then at comedy double speed she pushes through the crowd to stand face to face.

She launches in. 'Well, I wish I could call this a nice surprise. I thought things were settled. I really didn't expect to see you here. I didn't really expect to see you again. You said you were going away. Well, there's no alternative, I'm going to introduce you to Luke. I'm fed up of this skulking about. He's right over there.'

I scan the crowd in the direction she is pointing. I am a little bit curious and interested in meeting Luke. If I had time I'd study the man, understand him and maybe even learn from him. But I don't have time and there's no point in upsetting his day by pus.h.i.+ng my way into his consciousness this late in the game.

'I've come to say goodbye.'

'We've said goodbye.'

We have, not in so many words, but what's not said is often valuable.

'To Craig,'I add.

'Oh, I see.'Connie is still and silent for a moment. 'So you are going to Manchester?'

'Yes, I'm looking forward to it.'

'Good shops.'

'Clean start.'I smile at her. She nods. She knows that besides saying see ya to Craig, I'm saying goodbye to us, it, whatever and all that.

'Mr Walker was meeting and greeting the parents at the gate. I'm not sure if you'll get to see him now until after the play. You should stay and watch it. Fran is Mary.'She beams at me with unapologetic pride.

'That's only because I pulled strings,'I tell her.

'You didn't.'She looks aghast.

'No, I didn't. She got the part on the strength of her audition.'I can't pee on the proud mum's parade. It's obvious that Connie is already imagining gracefully acknowledging her daughter's thanks, as her daughter delivers her Oscar acceptance speech.

'So when are you off?'

'This afternoon. My work here is done.'

'Was it a successful project?'she asks politely.

I wanted to get you to fall in love with me again but you didn't, so no, not especially. I say this in my head. To Connie I reply, 'Yes, unexpected outcome but very educational.'

She nods. Somebody jolts Connie's arm and she nearly spills her mulled wine. We're being squeezed closer and closer together, as more parents arrive and s.p.a.ce is at a premium.

'We never talked,'she says.

'We never did anything other,'I reply.

She grins. 'No. I mean really talked about the old days.'

I give in to the awful inevitability. I've been playing dodgeball for too long. I'm tired. 'What is it you want to know?'

We fall silent, it seems like hours pa.s.s. I begin to wonder if I was right all along and talking between men and women is impossible. After an age Connie says, 'It doesn't matter any more.'But she's not accusing me. She's not angry with me. She's peaceful. We both know that the past is for learning from and letting go. You can't revisit it. It vanishes.

'Oh, except one thing. Do you know what went on between my friend Rose and Mr Walker? He must have done something really awful to upset her. She's been acting so peculiarly since their date.'

'She is peculiar,'I confirm. 'She ditched him at the wedding. Without a word of warning. Just ran off.'

'She did?'

'She did. He was gutted.'

'He was?'

'Yes, he's really into her. I don't know, women.'I shrug.

'We're a mystery, aren't we?'says Connie with a graceful smile. I can see that she's no longer thinking about me but she's consumed with curiosity and concern for her pal. 'I'd better go. I want a good seat.'She leans towards me and kisses me on the cheek. ''Bye, John. Look after yourself.'

Then she melts into the crowd of twitchy, excited parents before I even have a chance to wink.

49.

Tuesday 12 December

Lucy

He left my life as easily and un.o.btrusively as he entered it, but he has had a profound effect on how I will choose to live from now onwards and he'll never have any idea how much he affected me.

Joe Whitehead was laughingly easy to scare off. When Mick and I returned to the office, Mick called Joe into the boardroom and we faced him together. Coolly, calmly and courageously Mick stood in my corner and explained to Joe why we thought it would be better for Joe to resign that afternoon, rather than to force our hand and make us bring the whole sorry mess to Ralph's attention, the attention of the HR department and perhaps the courts. Joe was brazen for only a minute or so. He insisted I'd enjoyed myself at the time.

'I find that hard to believe,'said Mick. 'And you are even more insane than I thought if you really believe it to be so.'

Mick pointed out that it wasn't just Joe's conduct with me that was unprofessional. He listed at least half a dozen incidents where Joe had gone completely berserk with a junior member of his team and blamed them for problems that he ought to have resolved personally. Mick highlighted incidents where clients had expressed dissatisfaction or suffered financial losses. Mick made it clear that if he reported this latest incident to Ralph, Ralph no doubt would see it as the perfect excuse to fire Joe.

Joe must have recognized the non-negotiable sense in what Mick said because he quietly agreed to resign with immediate effect. No doubt he reasoned that it was better to search for new employment without a filthy black smudge of scandal hanging over his head. I understood that. I watched as he packed up his belongings and I thought, there but for the grace of G.o.d go I, or more specifically in this case, there but for the grace of Mick.

Without the continuous threat of exposure from the psycho stalker hanging over me, I quickly started to perform efficiently once again at GWH. I hadn't realized how much minds.p.a.ce I've been giving to worrying about Joe Whitehead. Now I've stopped jumping when my phone beeps to indicate an incoming text message. I no longer dread logging on to my e-mail account, I know I won't be faced with dozens of messages from him, and when messenger pops up on my screen, I know it will be a sweet tiding from Peter. It's an enormous relief.

Ralph has noticed that my performance and att.i.tude have picked up and has had no reason to call anyone into his office to discuss my output, not me or Mick. I still managed to get out of the office pretty sharpish this week, three nights out of five, and intend to go on doing so. I'm also planning to limit travel and will be relying heavily on video conferencing in the new year. But when I'm at the office I'm working harder than I ever did. I don't want to have to give up my career. I am finding a balance. Balance, by its very definition, will mean that I have to forgo the largest bonuses and the heartiest pats on the back so that I can spend more time with Auriol and Peter. But that's OK. After all these years trading commodities I've finally realized money comes and goes, time just goes, therefore the most valuable commodity is time and I want to spend as much of that as I can with my family. Simple really.

So I have Joe Whitehead to thank for my redefining my priorities and the notable increase in domestic harmony, albeit indirectly.

Of course, I'm not out of the woods yet. While my work life is less tremulous and stressful I am living on a knife-edge at home. The more time and effort I put into understanding and relating to Auriol (and therefore, among other things, winning the praise and respect of Peter), the more keenly aware I am that the stakes I'm playing with are frighteningly high. Rose could blow my world apart in one easy move. A few months ago I did not believe that my world was centred round my home life. I thought my world was wherever I happened to be; be that GWH, a spa, a c.o.c.ktail bar or a five-star hotel somewhere hot. I used to rush out of the house gratefully, away from the cloying domesticity, at every opportunity. Now, I wonder how I'd manage if I lost Peter and Auriol so soon after finding them, really finding them.

I called Rose with the intention of pleading my case and begging her to keep my secret. She was out when I rang and it's not the sort of message one can leave on the answering machine. She didn't call back and maybe that was for the best; I'm not sure throwing myself on her mercy is my most sensible option. It's unlikely she'll consider me a credible case for her charity and understanding. I consider whether it's worth my denying everything. I could head off the threat of her spilling the beans by telling Peter that there have been some tiresome rumours circulating at GWH, all completely unfounded. He'd believe me. He trusts me. It is his trust that makes that option impossible. I've always played the affairs of the heart and loins by my own incomparable rules, not the same moral standards that the majority profess to follow, but there have always been rules. Rule number one, I can't lie to Peter.

So, I am at Rose's mercy. Nine days have pa.s.sed since she let me know that she is aware of my infidelity. Every time the doorbell has rung since I've wondered if it is Rose, just popping round to reclaim what is hers by telling my love that I had s.e.x with an ugly man. Her silence, to date, does not rea.s.sure me. Perhaps she's waiting for the ultimate humiliating moment to expose me. The school nativity play, when her revelation could be savoured by our children and friends?Christmas day? Or perhaps she's playing a long game and is waiting until Auriol's wedding day.

I spot her straight away in the throng of parents milling around the school hall, munching unnecessary calories and sipping cheap mulled wine. She's wearing her hair in an up-do. I wouldn't have expected it to suit her (they can be very ageing) but it does, she looks modern and confident. My vulnerability obviously suits her. She's carrying a plate of mince pies and is offering them around. No doubt they are homemade. I did donate mince pies for today's event but they were shop-bought. Still, Auriol was pleased, because I forgot all about the contribution for the harvest festival. Small steps.

Peter sees Luke already seated on the skinny benches set up for the audience. Luke is surrounded by coats and bags spread to guard a bunch of places, no doubt at Connie's instruction. Peter heads over to chat to him and keep him company. I tell him I'll catch up and push in the opposite direction and head towards Rose.

'h.e.l.lo, Rose.'

'h.e.l.lo, Lucy, you are looking marvellous as usual,'she says as her eyes quickly scan my chocolate brown velvet trousers and rollneck jumper from Joseph.

I wonder if I'll sound sincere if I tell her that I think her hair suits her. The moment is lost when Rose adds, 'You seem to become lovelier with every misdeed you commit. You are a regular Dorian Gray, aren't you, Lucy?'

I smile coolly. 'I'd rather not have to live with your jibes from now until eternity, Rose. Do you think we ought to talk about what you know?'

'What's there to talk about? You are committing adultery. Situation normal.'

While Rose's talk is fighting talk, I notice she has lowered her voice and she glances apprehensively to left and right as she delivers her barbed comment. She doesn't want the other parents to know of my disgrace; after all, I am a.s.sociated with her. I take comfort in her conventionality. Rose smiles at a kid who helps himself to the last mince pie and then puts the plate to one side.

She folds her arms across her mammoth chest. 'The power balance has changed, hasn't it, Lucy?'she says. I stare at her. I don't see how. 'I am in control for once. I am top dog and you are waiting to see what I'll do.'

I am waiting to see what she'll do, but nothing has changed. I've lived my life under Rose's shadow. Will Peter propose to Rose? Will he leave Rose? Will Peter propose to me, after Rose? Will we buy a house near Rose? Will we send our daughter to the school Rose chose? And so on.

'I'll be frank, I'm enjoying this,'she says.

'I'm sure you are,'I concede.

'You've never given me a second thought, Lucy, and I feel rather wonderful, rather powerful, now that you have to think about me. I bet you've thought of nothing much besides me for several days now.'

Rose is understandably excited but despite her protestations that she's enjoying this situation she seems rather more manic than thrilled. Being nasty doesn't suit her. Dullness is her worst offence.

'Is that what you believe? That I rarely think of you?'I ask. 'I've rarely thought of anything else for years.'

She holds my gaze, trying to ascertain my level of honesty. I meet her eye. I'm telling the truth. For all of Rose's faults she's not stupid. She warily weighs up what I have just said.