Invisible Women Read online

  He’d looked at her with that mixture of amusement and exasperation.

  ‘Chief. As in Chief Executive Officer – I can forget that one – or Chief Operating Officer – more feasible.’

  ‘Chief cook and bottle washer?’ she’d suggested. ‘Big Chief Sitting Bull? Chief Brown Noser?’

  ‘It’s alright for you to take the piss,’ he’d said, ‘you won’t find it so funny when I’m pushed off the gravy train and the money runs out.’

  Tessa focused again on the question. How dirty could you be at fifty, anyway? How dirty should you be? Not at all, was the correct answer. Appropriate was what you had to be. Behave and dress in a manner appropriate to your age, or risk being ridiculous. With this in mind, she had bought new nightwear for the weekend, to make a change from the shapeless T-shirt she normally wore. Not a negligee, not – God help us – a baby doll, but an appropriate and elegant pair of silk pyjamas. She pictured herself wearing them, sitting up in the king-size bed of the Enodoc suite while Matt brought her a cup of tea from the in-room facilities.

  According to the website, their particular room boasted far-reaching views across the bay.

  ‘How come rooms are always described as boasting views?’ she said to Matt, ‘As if they’re in competition with each other. Hey, my view’s better than yours.’

  ‘What are you on about now?’

  ‘Our room in the hotel. It boasts a view.’

  It was the sort of room they would have been thrilled to stay in twenty-five years ago – a silver age away – when it was far beyond their budget. Now they could afford it, it was less thrilling. Just as it was less thrilling for Matt to get this low-slung car in his fifties, when it was too late to jump out of it without his knees creaking. He’d gone for the four-litre engine in spite of Tessa’s objections. Three litres was for ordinary people, he said, almost without irony, though Tessa pointed out that ordinary people, however you defined it, didn’t tend to buy Maseratis.

  The weekend was a present from their children. ‘Obviously you don’t need any more stuff,’ Max had said, grinning at her as she’d opened the card on Christmas Day. ‘Experiences are what you want at your age. We thought Cornwall would be best.’ He knew he’d been conceived in Cornwall, and had been indoctrinated by enough bucket-and-spade holidays to believe they held the secret of family happiness. As though his parents could be pushed back to the time when they still looked good in the photo album, playing French cricket on a windswept beach in swimsuits and waterproofs. How conservative the young were, in their belief that everything was better in the good old days of their childhood. ‘It’s a bit expensive, so we’re only paying for one night but we’ve booked two and Dad can fork for the other one. Though you could say he’s paying for it all indirectly, seeing as he finances us.’

  She wished that Max and Lola were with them now, back in the big old car instead of this silly toy that Matt referred to, semi tongue-in-cheek, as the ‘mazza’. They used to set off at dawn, the sleeping children strapped in the back seat of the Ford Galaxy, surrounded by paraphernalia to entertain them when they woke up, usually around Yeovil. The car was a messy playpen, littered with books and teddy bears and Playmobil figures along with crumbling crackers and beakers spilling juice. The Maserati, in contrast, was as cold and clean as a showroom model, it was Matt’s gift to himself to celebrate the children reaching the age of adulthood. ‘They can clean up after themselves now’ he said, ‘finally we are safe from sticky fingers.’

  They still took family holidays, most recently in Greece to celebrate Lola’s graduation from school, right after her prom. Tessa didn’t disapprove of the Americanisation of the young, why shouldn’t they whoop it up, and take any opportunity to celebrate, however ersatz? You have to enjoy it while you can, that was the one truth you could glean from this uncertain, godless world. And she was determined to enjoy this weekend with her husband of twenty-five years who was now swearing into his wing mirror at some jumped-up motorist who was thinking of overtaking. Her life partner, to use the modern phrase. Life partner, life sentence. But stop. Cheerfulness was a duty, that much she believed, and she had plenty to be cheerful about it.

  Lola seemed to be enjoying Freshers’ Week, judging from the photos she’d posted on Facebook that afternoon. Personally, Tessa wouldn’t dream of wearing an oversized T shirt and inviting strangers to write crude slogans all over it. Yet Lola and her new friends clearly found it hilarious, offering up exaggerated expressions of pleasure to the camera: rictus grins, thumbs-up signs and, in one case, a young man’s hairy bare bottom, exposed by lowering the flap of his giant baby-gro.

  She must have dozed off after the second corpse had been discovered in wet leaves. When she came round, the narrator’s actorly delivery had been replaced by the robotic tone of the satnav. Matt called it Samantha the Stepford Wife. She never got cross or dithered about unmarked roads, and always gave adequate warning.

  ‘At the next junction, turn half left,’

  It saved a lot of arguments. After years of frowning over a map and annoying her husband by failing to identify key landmarks, Tessa could now sit beside him, hands folded in her lap, absolved of this responsibility as of so many. It was another example of how she was more and more redundant.

  It was getting dark now, and exciting to be on the small country roads.

  ‘I’ve missed Stonehenge,’ she said, ‘you should have woken me.’

  ‘Ah, your fantasy!’

  Matt put his hand out to squeeze her leg. Tessa used to talk about moving to Cornwall, imagining a removal van packed with all their things driving past the primitive monument, while they followed behind, on their way to a sure and happy new life. It was a snapshot from the virtual album of their past, as real as the actual photos of holidays and birthdays that made up the official record of their years together. Matt considered it a pedestrian dream; there were too many people with estuary accents in Cornwall, lured by the annual fortnight’s holiday and now condemned to a retirement of walking the cliffs in Marks & Spencer anoraks and growing fat on cream teas.

  She opened her window and breathed in the cold air.

  ‘I love it when you get to the wild bit. I can smell the sea! We must be nearly there.’

  They were coming into the outskirts of a village, lined with tidy rows of bungalows with optimistic names: Bella Vista, Cosy Nook, Belle Vue.

  ‘Ouch!’ said Matt. It was his stock response to the sight of buildings that displeased him, as if modest new houses were erected for the sole purpose of causing him pain. She pulled a packet of sweets out of her bag.

  ‘Have a Werther’s Original, take your mind off it.’

  She unwrapped one and put it in his mouth.

  ‘Betjeman was right about Cornwall. An ugly picture in a beautiful frame. Let’s hope our hotel isn’t blighted by bungalow eczema.’

  He didn’t know that Tessa had taken the precaution of checking it out on Google Earth. Max and Lola would not have been concerned by such details when they chose the hotel, but Tessa had zoomed out behind the harbour looking for eyesores. She didn’t want to spend two days hearing him drone on about lax planning laws in areas of outstanding beauty.

  The descent to the cove was steep, with high banks of foliage defining the narrow lane leading down to a tiny harbour littered with fishing pots and scruffy boats. A tight clutch of cottages, built close against storms, made up the hotel, harmonious in its surroundings.

  ‘It’s lovely!’ said Tessa, looking out over the dark sea as Matt took their bag from the boot, pleased to find he had the best car on the parking terrace that had been hacked out of the cliff.

  They were shown to their room by an eager young man called Justin who looked as though he’d just put on his first-ever suit and reminded Tessa of their son. She made appreciative noises as he pointed out the fresh milk jug and showed them the sea view. Above the harbour she saw the cliff path they would be taking tomorrow. ‘Just to remind you, we stop serving dinner at nine,
’ he said on his way out. He knew you had to warn London types.

  ‘A bit beige,’ said Matt, stretching out on the bed and running his hand over the parchment lampshade. ‘God, I wouldn’t want to do that drive every weekend.’

  ‘But you do like it? You must!’

  ‘Course I do. Come here.’ He patted the bed and she lay down beside him, kicking off her shoes.

  ‘I’d say off-white, rather than beige,’ she said, looking round the room, drawing on the Farrow and Ball colour card that was still imprinted on her memory. ‘Dimity and Pointing at a guess, a neutral organic palette.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s because you’re a glass half full person. I’m sticking to beige. Or magnolia.’

  ‘Ah, that reminds me.’

  She went over to their suitcase and produced a bottle of champagne, ready-chilled in a freezer sleeve, together with a pair of Veuve Clicquot glasses. ‘No point in paying minibar prices.’

  ‘Your careful husbandry amazes me.’

  ‘And that’s not all.’ She rummaged again in the bag and came up with a Tupperware box.

  ‘Homemade cheese straws?’

  She arranged them on a plate, then opened the bottle and poured two generous glasses.

  ‘Cheers!’ She was back on the bed now, the plate balanced between them.

  ‘Do you think you’re obsessed with food?’ Matt asked, as he bit into the buttery pastry, careful to catch the crumbs.

  ‘Not obsessed. It’s a hobby. Obsessed is when you take a coolbox of home-made food on your honeymoon, like Nigella did, if you remember, on the private plane. Not that it saved the marriage from strangulation of course.’

  ‘Oddly enough, I don’t remember. At least her obsession paid off. Big time. I just wish your own interest in food had led to something so profitable. You’ve got the same buxom figure as Nigella, but not her vast fortune, more’s the pity.’

  He could never resist his little digs and Tessa was getting a bit sick of it. She snatched the plate away from him.

  ‘You won’t be wanting any more of these then! May I say you’ve done pretty well out of me over the years, all those delicious dinners I’ve made for you. I’ll stop cooking now if you want, see how you like it!’ She curled into her side of the bed.

  ‘Only joking!’ Matt cajoled, snuggling up behind her. ‘You are a domestic goddess and I like your curves, you know that.’

  Tessa softened slightly. No point in arguing, she was determined to enjoy this weekend, with all the pampering treats on offer in the hotel.

  ‘I was thinking of having a full-body seaweed wrap in the spa before dinner, but it’s a bit late now. Don’t want to miss our table. We have been warned.’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘There’s always tomorrow for your me-time. I’ve got some work to do – I could get on with that after breakfast while you work on yourself. As per. Top up?’

  He fetched the bottle and refilled their glasses.

  ‘Happy anniversary, Mrs Draper. Now, we’ve got some time to kill. What say you we address the business in hand? Get it out the way before dinner. Controversially.’

  He was unbuckling his belt.

  She hadn’t unpacked yet. And what about the silk pyjamas? Oh well, she thought, as she felt the familiar weight of him, they’d always do for watching the late-night film in. On the television screen that Justin had shown them, artfully concealed in a painted-beige cabinet at the foot of the bed.

  *

  Couples, she thought, as they were shown into the dining room. There was no escape from the deadly hush of a roomful of couples with nothing to say to each other.

  ‘I’m including myself in that category, by the way,’ she explained to Matt in a church whisper. ‘I mean, no offence, but when you’ve spent the whole day together, you kind of run out of things to say. Never mind twenty-five years.’

  ‘At least you’ve got something to say for yourself.’ Matt spoke at his normal volume. ‘Even if it’s just to say you’ve got nothing to say.’

  He smiled at her, and caught the eye of the woman at the next table who had looked up to see who had raised the sound level. She wore a floral dress and a heart-sinking haircut, the short-back-and-sides inexplicably favoured by so many women over a certain age.

  ‘I tell you what, Tessa.’ He lowered the volume. ‘I reckon you’re the best-looking woman here.’

  She looked round the room.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s much of a compliment, but thanks anyway. Though she’s quite hot.’

  She gestured towards a younger couple who had been allocated the window seat, in deference to their relative youth and beauty.

  ‘Short legs,’ said Matt, ‘I clocked her on the way in. I couldn’t be with a woman who’s got short legs, just as I couldn’t be married to a woman who couldn’t cook. Glad to say you pass on both counts.’

  Justin came over to take their order.

  ‘Ah, Justin, man of many parts I see, acting as both front of house and maitre d’! All part of the charm of the boutique hotel I suppose. We’ll have the seafood platter, I think. When in Rome. And a bottle of Chablis, I’m assuming you also double as the sommelier. Now, which of these sparkling waters is closest to Badoit? I want sparkle, but not fizz, if you’re with me. Don’t want it going up my nose, but just enough to give it a fillip, if you know what I mean.’

  As Justin talked him through the relative sparkliness of the mineral waters on offer, Tessa noticed the sensible-haired woman looking over in disbelief. She and her silent husband were making do with tap. They seemed untroubled by the need to make conversation. But perhaps that was it, Tessa thought, maybe a perfect complicity meant you didn’t need to talk incessantly, exchanging inanities just to make the point that you were ‘communicating’. Silence, after all, was a normal and agreeable condition. Tessa knew all about that; she could sometimes go perfectly contentedly all day without speaking. Matt could not.

  ‘Clever choice, the seafood platter,’ he said as Justin left them, ‘low-cal, to offset the egg and bacon you know we’re going to have tomorrow.’

  He was keen on offsetting: the offset mortgage, the offset expenses, even the offsetting of his catastrophic carbon footprint by getting his secretary to tick the box to buy a tree whenever she booked him a flight. All charged to the company of course.

  ‘And we’ll walk it off anyway,’ she said, ‘let’s go for a really long hike.’

  She wanted to go to all their old places; the wide beaches, the discreet coves where they used to have sex when no one was watching. She wanted to revisit the rock pools where they would spend hours crouched with the children, poking fluorescent plastic nets on sticks through green weed to bring out wiggling brown bits of pond life that bore no resemblance to fish. Tomorrow they’d relive it all again, they’d take the sandy cliff path lined with gorse and thrift right out to the headland, then down to the wild grey sea, maybe even go paddling if it was warm enough, they were always happy in Cornwall and this weekend would be no exception.

  Matt was wearing his stern black spectacles this evening and as he turned his head she could read the silver letters P-R-A-D-A written up the side. Max had given him a hard time about that; ‘might as well spell out A-R-S-E’ he said, and Matt had looked hurt. He had chosen them for the design, and if that came with some branding, that was okay by him, you had to remain on trend in his business. The spectacles were part of his armour, along with the understated Hogan shoes and dark shirts, the expensive casualness that carried him into the battleground of his mysterious office world.

  ‘It was sweet of the children, wasn’t it, to do this for us?’ said Tessa. ‘I was just thinking how lovely it would be if they walked in right now to have dinner with us.’

  ‘What, am I too boring for you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said quickly, ‘I just meant, wouldn’t it be nice . . . I wonder what Lola’s up to tonight.’

  She thought of her daughter in her functional student bedro
om. Something of the prison cell about it on first sight, with its mean dimensions and small bed fitted with standard-issue mattress protector. At least she’d have put up her posters up by now, which would cheer it up, and those empty shelves would be filled with books and photos to take away the bleakness. Maybe she was getting ready for a night out, trying on the leopard-skin top from New Look or the strappy one from Topshop they had chosen together that was just the right shade of tawny rose to set off her beautiful complexion. She’d said something about a bar crawl this evening, ending up in a club. Hopefully she would be out with a good crowd and wouldn’t get left behind somewhere or have her drink spiked. There was that case recently where a girl hadn’t realised her drink had been spiked and had collapsed on her way home. After all, it could happen to anyone, and what if Lola was on her own?

  ‘I hope she’s not lying unconscious in a ditch,’ she said to Matt, who reacted as she knew he would, by letting her know she was being ridiculous.

  ‘Stop worrying! You know how sensible she is.’

  ‘You do hear terrible stories, though, don’t you? It’s often the sensible ones who go wild and drink two bottles of vodka and fall in the river.’

  ‘It’s not going to happen.’

  ‘I know, but I can’t help imagining it. I think it’s because she’s a girl, or maybe because she’s the last one to leave.’

  ‘Sad old empty nester.’

  ‘No I’m not. Anyway, they haven’t really left, have they?’

  ‘Not with those slack university terms. Wait till they emigrate to Australia or something. Then you’ll just have me. It’ll be a permanent second honeymoon.’

  He reached for her hand and pulled a cheesy romantic face.

  It wasn’t something she cared to think about. She laughed and pushed her chair back.

  ‘We can become an active older couple. Go on cruises like in the Saga ads. Gaze dreamily out to sea before having dinner with the captain. Get sunstroke round the pool with all the other beached old whales.’

  ‘Shoot me now.’ He put an imaginary gun to his head.