Invisible Women Read online

  ‘No thanks, I’ll leave you to it. I might go a bit earlier to Heathrow, I actually love it; the atmosphere and all those people going to exciting places.’

  ‘I agree. Treat yourself to a glass of champagne and a spot of people-watching. As you wait for your Tom Conti substitute.’

  ‘You’re right! I’m definitely going early now, I’m all excited.’

  ‘Well you enjoy it,’ said Sandra, ‘you deserve a bit of fun, we all do.’

  Do I though, thought Tessa as she hung up. Do I really deserve a bit of fun when my life is so privileged and unproductive? But then she remembered dining with an old friend was not exactly the last word in decadent self-indulgence, even if she couldn’t actually think of anything she’d rather be doing tonight.

  *

  Standing behind the barrier in Arrivals, Tessa suddenly had cold feet. What if she took one look at him and realised this was all a horrible mistake, that their online flirting was absurd, that there was in fact no connection between them? Here she was, in prime position in front of the sliding-glass doors, offering an uninterrupted view of herself to the passengers coming through. Maybe he would take one look at her and think, oh dear, no thanks.

  She quickly stood up, deciding to change tactics. She needed to see him before he saw her, you had to trust your instincts in these things, and if her heart actually sank at the sight of him, she could just slip away and pretend something had come up and she couldn’t make it. With this in mind, she positioned herself half hidden behind a pillar. Plan A: move forward and greet and continue as planned; Plan B: slip back behind the pillar then make a swift retreat, texting an apology about unforeseen circumstances.

  ‘Tessa!’

  She jumped out of her skin. In spite of her precautions, he’d seen her first. She turned round and there he was. Big and reassuring in a leather coat, and with very little hair.

  ‘Tessa!!’ He said her name again and drew her into a strong hug. The embrace sent a shock through her which felt so familiar that Tessa was completely lost for words. The physical memory of him holding her was so clear, it was exactly how she remembered, but now he felt larger, stronger. It was normal, she rationalised, the boy had become a man.

  ‘You smell like Tessa,’ he said, breathing her in, then smoothing back her hair.

  ‘Rive Gauche. I bought some specially.’

  He was holding her by her upper arms now, pushing her away from him so he could get a better view.

  ‘I can’t believe it, you look exactly the same!!’

  He looked her up and down, inspecting her as if she was a real piece of work.

  ‘You look fantastic!!’ he said. ‘What are you doing behind this pillar, were you planning on doing a runner?’

  His voice was familiar from their skype conversations. Look atcher. Whaddya doin’? He was transatlantic now, like an ocean-going liner.

  She tried to think of something to say as she felt him looking at her. It was easy talking online, throwing out confidences from the safe place of your computer keyboard. Now, meeting him in the flesh, she felt shy.

  He looked like his photo, older than his years, with no attempt to hide it. His hair was neatly cut, reminding her of the bald man they used to depict on a Daddies sauce bottle – not for him the fashionable shaved head. And a good, honest face that was still handsome.

  ‘How was your flight?’ she asked eventually. ‘Sorry, really boring question . . .’

  He looked at her with twinkly eyes, gently mocking her conventional enquiry.

  ‘My flight was good, thanks. I sure was excited at the thought of you waiting for me. I kept telling myself you might not make it, you might, I dunno, disappear behind a pillar.’

  There was an energy about him that she found hypnotic, and he stood a little too close.

  ‘And now I’m here with you,’ he said.

  ‘I know. It’s so weird—’

  ‘I need a drink,’ he said, ‘but first things first. Shall we collect our motor car, m’ dear?’

  He offered his arm and she laughed at his Cary Grant impersonation. That was him now, of course, effortlessly straddling two continents.

  Walking out of the hall, arm in arm, she remembered how he had always been the optimum height, just right for her to lean her head into his shoulder.

  She looked straight ahead, but was aware of him giving her sideways glances, could feel his admiration burning into her.

  They stood awkwardly at the car hire desk as he supplied information. Was he someone who would prefer to prepay petrol? Would he take the excess insurance? She’d known him all this time but she didn’t know him at all.

  ‘I didn’t sleep last night,’ he said, turning to her while the girl filled out the forms. ‘I couldn’t believe it, that I was going to see you again. You look exactly the same.’

  ‘So you said, but you know it’s not true.’

  She watched him while he chatted to the car hire woman, charming her with his hybrid accent. The hulk of him was so different from the slim boy she remembered, but what had she expected, exactly? A pre-Raphaelite moment when her long-time admirer would step forward, unchanged, after thirty years of palely loitering? To pull her back through the decades to that age when time hung heavy, when you squandered sunny afternoons waiting for your life to start?

  He picked up the key and turned to her.

  ‘Come on, gorgeous, let’s go.’

  ‘You sounded quite American on Skype,’ she said, settling into the passenger seat, ‘but in the flesh you’re much more English.’

  ‘Nah, I practise every day,’ he said, exaggerating the Cockney vowels, and Tessa had a glimpse of how he must play it in his adopted country, the Brit abroad, they all just love the way he talks.

  They moved out on to the motorway; he was a confident driver, she remembered that, one hand casually on the wheel, the other free to stroke her hair when she used to sit beside him in his mother’s run-around Mini.

  As if reading her mind, he stretched out his arm and touched the back of her head.

  ‘So soft, your hair. I’d know it anywhere. If you blindfolded me, I could still pick it out by touch. You’re beautiful, Tessa.’

  ‘No I’m not! Don’t you remember, I’m a personality girl?’

  She moved away from him slightly, but could still feel his hand in her hair.

  ‘It’s an interesting technique, apparently,’ she said, trying to making light conversation. ‘A friend of mine told me that to be successful with women, you need to tell the clever ones they’re beautiful and the beautiful ones they’re clever. Never fails, apparently.’

  ‘What about if they’re clever and beautiful? You were my dream girl, and you still are. You’re gorgeous.’

  I should stop him now, she thought. I should get him to drop me back at the airport and I’ll just go straight back home and that’s the end of it.

  ‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea,’ she said. ‘I’m just wondering if the whole thing isn’t a bit . . . weird.’

  He turned and grinned at her.

  ‘I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it? Like a beautiful gift that’s just been dropped in our laps! Who’d ever have thought it?’

  The car swerved slightly and Tessa gripped her seat.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road! And put both hands on the wheel.’

  He withdrew his arm and did as he was told.

  Just one drink, she thought. She’d go with him to the hotel and stay for just one drink, no harm in that.

  ‘What do you drink these days?’ he asked, as though reading her mind. ‘I guess you’ve moved on from lager and lime? I bet you’ve grown up to be a white wine girl, now we’ve moved on from Liebfraumilch and Blue Nun. A crisp Sauvignon, I reckon, am I right?’

  ‘That would go down very nicely.’

  She wished she had a glass right there and then, just to calm her nerves. An ice-cold, goblet-sized glass to knock back and make her feel more normal.

  ‘And you m
ust be craving a pint of bitter,’ she continued, ‘because they can’t make it in America, can they?’

  ‘Tell me about it! Lousy beer and the food’s not much better. I’m intending to really go for it tonight.’

  ‘You can expect excellent food at Le Manoir.’

  ‘Can’t wait. And with my dream dinner date! I’m one happy man!!’

  He turned to her again and she realised she would, of course, be staying for dinner.

  They continued their journey out of London, familiar strangers. John tuned into Classic FM and Tessa recalled another journey they had made together, along with Sandra and Adam, skiving off school to drive through the night to camp by the Pembrokeshire coast. Watching the sun rise above the cliffs to the tune of Beethoven’s pastoral symphony, there was no satnav in those days, you just had to follow the signs or read the map, or enjoy getting lost. Vignettes of their times together passed before her eyes like a slow-motion picture. Lying in the grass in the park throwing bread for the ducks while he takes her photograph; picking blackberries in the forest, their fingers stained purple and scratched. Sunday afternoon in the British Museum, he’s whispering into her neck while the guide is speaking. You never think, when you’re living these moments, that they’re going to come back and revisit you thirty years later when you’re driving along with a man who wants to convince you that you are the love of his life. Supposing he was right, what if he really was The One and her in-between life had merely been a prolonged interlude while she waited for his return?

  Arriving at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons, Tessa was struck by how perfect a venue this was for a homecoming expatriate. The solid honey stone house, dominating the village with its long walled garden, fed the nostalgia for a country squire’s blessed life that was rooted in every romantic English heart.

  She studied the paintings on the wall while John checked in.

  ‘I’m going to leave my case in my room before we head to the bar,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  They were shown across a courtyard, to an outbuilding that might once have been a stable. The suite was on two levels, accessed by its own staircase, and the size of small house. A luxurious sofa and armchairs were arranged before an open fire, while a massive bed was on a raised dais beyond. The bathroom was a marble palace, where every form of ablution was awarded its own dedicated alcove.

  ‘We’ve left a welcome basket for you,’ said the bellboy, ‘please let me know if you need anything, and enjoy your stay.’

  When he left, Tessa slipped away to wash her hands and peer at herself in the mirror above the extravagant dressing table. She pulled her powder compact out and dabbed at her face. John couldn’t mean it, could he, that she looked exactly the same? You could see the way the flesh hung differently, bags over and under the eyes, odd nodules of skin that developed for no apparent reason.

  ‘Ridiculous bathroom,’ she said, coming round the corner to the sitting area. ‘I’ve never seen so many nooks and crannies. And all those toiletries! Whatever happened to the simple bar of soap?’

  John was sitting on the sofa, opening the champagne. He handed her a glass.

  ‘Here’s to us,’ he said.

  She sat beside him and took the glass, very conscious of their intimate situation, alone together beneath the subtle lighting of this hotel suite. Over his shoulder, she could see the bed, shrouded by dark-green satin curtains.

  ‘Nice room,’ she said.

  ‘Nice everything,’ he said, putting his hand on her knee and leaning forward to study her face. ‘You’ve reapplied your lipstick, is that for me? I’m flattered!’

  She took a sip of champagne, leaving a smudge of Clarins Joli Rouge on the rim.

  ‘It’s a posh hotel,’ she said. ‘I thought I should rise to the occasion.’

  ‘You’ve certainly done that,’ he said. ‘Although you don’t need the warpaint, I can tell you could still get away without it.’

  He brushed his fingers lightly down her cheek and she wished he would do it again.

  ‘You were always a natural beauty,’ he said. ‘Not like my ex-wife. High maintenance doesn’t even get near it. Always scrubbing and depilating and exfoliating, it’s a miracle she didn’t rub herself out of existence. Pity she didn’t.’

  ‘You’ve told me quite a bit about your ex-wife,’ said Tessa, ‘and now I know she’s very clean.’

  ‘Clean and mad. Not a winning combination. But then, of course, she didn’t stand a chance, did she? I should never have married her.’

  He moved closer so his leg was pressing into hers and topped up her glass. She wanted more of this. More champagne and more of him.

  ‘Too many shoulds,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just something a friend of mine’s husband was told. By his therapist.’

  ‘Oh. You get those here too then?’

  ‘Oh yes. We’re right up there with you yanks, now. Not me though, luckily.’

  ‘Me neither. I tell them, I’m from England, we don’t do depression.’

  ‘We do now, we’ve caught up.’

  John put his arm round her and squeezed her waist, which sent a thrill through her body.

  ‘I don’t know what the opposite is of depressed,’ he said. ‘But I can categorically say that I have never felt so un-depressed as I do right now.’

  ‘Elated, maybe?’

  ‘Yes! I’m elated!’

  ‘Me too.’

  He moved in and she was sure he was going to kiss her, but then he pulled back.

  ‘Right, I’m going to take a shower then we can go down to the bar. Stay right there, honey, I won’t be long.’

  Honey. It was what he always used to call her. When she heard it now, it made her feel as though she had been handed back something she had lost. She watched him strip off his shirt on the way to the bathroom and noticed the no-nonsense breadth of his back.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, emerging two minutes later. Clearly he wasn’t someone to waste time on male grooming.

  Before going to the bar, she made him go outside with her to look at the vegetable garden. Long, hopeful rows of beetroot and chervil, spring cabbage, each marked by a handwritten label, it was the work of committed enthusiasts.

  ‘I’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ said Tessa. ‘A massive vegetable plot where you grow everything you need. Do you like gardening?’

  It was like a first date, she had no idea what his hobbies were.

  ‘Not really,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a yard but I don’t grow stuff. No time. You could do it for me, though!’

  He put his arm round her shoulder and guided her back to the hotel. For a mad moment, she imagined them living as a couple in his home. One of those sprawling American mansions with a kitchen like a spaceship. Sprinklers on lawns that looked like green carpets and the vegetable patch beyond, with a large glasshouse and tomato canes where he would play hide and seek with their grandchildren, like the Godfather before he collapsed of a heart attack.

  In the bar, they sat by the window and John sipped his long-awaited pint of ale. He looked hearty and wholesome, as if he’d just come in from the fields and scrubbed up before changing into the sky-blue skirt and chinos which looked as though they had been bulk-ordered from a catalogue. She guessed they had been, as he’d always disliked shopping. She imagined he had a dozen identical models at home in his wardrobe, hanging above a row of big trainers. He looked quite different from the men at the next table, who were wearing sharp suits and expensive shiny shoes.

  ‘This is great,’ he said. ‘Sitting here with you, shooting the breeze. It’s like the last thirty years never happened.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Brought together by the miracle of the internet. Useful in many ways, but life-transforming in this particular instance.’

  ‘Life-transforming, that’s a bit strong!’

  ‘It is, though. In the old days, I could never have tracked you down. I would have spent the r
est of my life wondering what happened to you, regretting that I was too chicken to come back and claim you. Whereas, with a few clicks, here I am, back where I belong.’

  He took a sip of beer and sat back in his chair, looking at her, his prize.

  The waiter approached them.

  ‘Are you ready for your table?’

  They studied the menu in silence and Tessa guessed John would be looking for the most straightforward options. Whereas she and Matt always selected the most recherché dish on offer, then Matt got annoyed because he thought it was boring for them both to have the same thing.

  Over confit of salmon and wild mushroom risotto, he explained the pleasure he took from running his own successful business. He was also voluble on the failings of his ex-wife.

  ‘I should have known,’ he said, ‘the warning bell should have sounded when I found out she’d checked out my assets and credit rating before she agreed to marry me.’

  ‘The American dream,’ said Tessa. ‘It’s all about the money. Remember this is the country that had a collective nervous breakdown at the idea of universal health care.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s not that simple, you’re speaking like a European socialist!’

  ‘You do talk a lot about your ex-wife.’

  ‘Sorry, I guess I’m still bitter, I’ll shut up now.’

  He folded his arms and sat back.

  ‘What about the woman you said you were seeing? Or “sort of seeing”, as you put it.’

  ‘She’s nice, I told you. But it’s not the same when you meet someone off the internet. There’s no history. You don’t know how she looked when was seventeen, you haven’t seen the evolution of the teenager into a woman. There’s no price on that.’

  Tessa nervously emptied her glass.

  ‘You’re right, we need more wine,’ said John, ‘where’s our waiter?’

  The sommelier appeared as if by magic.

  ‘That burgundy was so good, we’d better have another glass each before the next course. Chassagne Montrachet Premier Cru, excuse my accent, I’m American!’

  He winked at Tessa.

  ‘The wine flight’s a good idea, matching a glass to each course, but we really need double quantity!’