Invisible Women Read online

  ‘Have you and Sandra got a thing going on? You were out with her last night as well, weren’t you?’

  ‘I won’t be long, how was your think-tank thingy?’

  ‘It was alright, but I’m not really in the mood for small talk with the builder, so please hurry up.’

  *

  After a few hours shopping for the rough-hewn slabs of stone that would be crafted into a bespoke designer surface for their guest bathroom, Barry dropped Tessa back home where she found Matt still frowning over his spreadsheets.

  ‘All done?’ he asked as she came in.

  ‘Yes, I think it’ll look really good.’

  ‘That’s alright then. So now I’ve just got to work out how to pay for it. I wish I could say the future looked bright, but it looks like I’ll be working until I’m eighty at this rate. While you do sweet FA as usual.’

  He looked at her over his glasses like a disapproving headmaster.

  ‘Can’t you just take your pension now?’ Tessa asked.

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘We don’t need much to live on. You could take up smoking to get a better rate on an annuity. I looked into it, it’s the opposite of buying life insurance; they pay you more for having bad habits and poor health, in the hope that you’ll die as soon as possible. We could enjoy a short but wild old age.’

  ‘You’re insane. Nobody buys an annuity any more, not at the rates they’re offering. A few years ago, I would have been laughing, but it’s all gone to shit, even worse than I thought. So, to answer your question, no I can’t “just take my pension now”. And what I really want is for you to start earning some money, never mind just helping yourself to mine.’

  Money, he was obsessed with it, why couldn’t he think of something else for a change, the loveless old miser? Dismissing the years she’d spent bringing up his children, doing everything for him, as if she was some kind of housekeeper who had outlived her usefulness.

  ‘OK, you win,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll start a little business making overpriced knick-knacks and force my friends to buy them at pop up sales. I’ll host those evenings where you offer wine and canapés and people feel too guilty to leave without spending fifty quid. Let’s see, maybe ethnic jewellery, or handmade soap. Or chutneys in jars with frilly little tops. I’ll become one of those kitchen table CEOs and make a website with a photo of myself wearing a workmanlike apron.’

  ‘Why not? At least you’d be contributing something.’

  ‘Or else I’ll get a humiliating job as a PA to some rich old entrepreneur who wants a mature lady to sort out his affairs.’

  ‘What’s humiliating about that?’

  ‘Do you really need to ask? How would you like to take a job like that? Because that’s all I could get, realistically.’

  ‘Go back into the City then, get a proper job.’

  ‘Hello! Fifty years old and out of the job market for half of them. Who’d hire me?’

  ‘Sell your body?’

  ‘Haha.’

  If only he knew, she thought. There was someone who wanted to share everything with her, who was only waiting for her to agree then he would give himself and all he had to her, in a dazzling burst of warmth and generosity.

  ‘Anyway, I really don’t know what you’re worried about,’ she said. ‘We’ve got loads of money sitting in the deposit account.’

  ‘Oh, just sitting in the deposit account, is it? Wonder how it got there. Not by you sitting on your arse at home, that’s for sure.’

  ‘No, Matt, it got there through your hard work, well done. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going downstairs to get on with lunch.’

  She escaped to the sanctuary of her kitchen, and opened the fridge to think about what to make. Then closed it again. It was of no interest to her what they should have for lunch. She texted John.

  Next weekend then. Where?

  He would be in the dining room, now, finishing his breakfast, or maybe back in the Jade suite, in front of the fire.

  Fantastic news! I’ve booked this place for us, right after my Manchester meeting. Join me here on Friday.

  There followed a series of photos of a hotel on the Yorkshire moors. A medieval manor, with interconnecting walled gardens, inviting you to step through riotous cottage planting to formal rose beds and box-edged planting inspired by Shakespeare, with fennel and columbines and rosemary for remembrance. It looked like the kind of place where you should arrive on horseback, sitting side-saddle in a velvet riding habit, to be greeted by a line-up of scrubbed-face servants as you came clattering into the courtyard. ‘Welcome to Dursdale,’ they’d say as they helped you dismount and showed you into the great hall hung with tapestries where a fire was burning in the oversized chimney.

  His geography was a bit off, though, she ought to put him right.

  Manchester is not in Yorkshire.

  I know but not far. This is for R & R after my meeting.

  So I’m your R & R?

  You’re my everything. As Barry White put it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Don’t let him coop you up while he is away. You must live your life; you cannot vegetate.’

  Blanche Ebbutt, Don’ts for Wives, 1913

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Tessa in a voice that sounded artificially casual to her guilty ear, ‘that I might go up and see Anne Davey this weekend.’

  ‘Who?’ Matt looked up from his granola.

  ‘Remember, she came to our wedding. Tall girl with a mane of golden hair. Married a doctor and went to live in the Lake District.’

  ‘Vaguely. Very English-looking. Sturdy ankles.’

  ‘That sounds quite a precise recollection.’

  ‘I remember looking at her and thinking I’m glad I went for something more exotic.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for years, but she got in touch out of the blue. Her husband’s left her and she’s having a tough time.’

  How easy it was to lie. She’d always thought of herself as a truthful person and was shocked by her own glibness.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Matt, ‘What was it, a midlife crisis?’

  ‘Twenty-seven-year-old trampoline instructor, so yes, I would say so.’

  ‘Lucky fellow. See how fortunate you are that I’m still here. When are you going?’

  ‘Friday. Can I take your car?’

  ‘Oh, I see. Not only are you leaving me on my own, you’re also making sure I’m grounded for the weekend.’

  ‘I could get the train, but it’s in the middle of nowhere and I’d have to change and then get a taxi.’

  ‘Can’t she pick you up?’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust her behind the wheel. She sounded really upset.’

  Tessa was surprised at her own inventiveness, and all the while Anne Davey was leading her calm Canadian life, unaware of the drama created in her name.

  ‘Good old Tessa to the rescue,’ said Matt, ‘dropping everything to rush to the bedside of the bosom buddy she hasn’t seen for twenty-five years.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I’d like to see her. Anyway, you said yourself that we should both develop new interests and be more independent. We don’t have to do everything together.’

  ‘Maybe I should develop a new interest in a twenty-seven-year-old trampoline instructor.’

  ‘Maybe you should.’

  ‘Go on then, you can take the car. I’ll plan a weekend of manly treats for myself. Trip to the Tate, take a look in Paul Smith, Thai takeaway for one.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She cleared the plates, relieved at the excuse to end the conversation. That was it then, objective achieved.

  ‘I might try and get tickets for the match on Saturday, see if Max wants to join me.’

  ‘Good idea, he’d like that.’

  Running the pans under the tap, she tried to push aside the image of Max and Matt in an imaginary future, keeping each other company as they tried to understand why Tessa had chosen to break up their happy h
ome by running off with a bald American who wouldn’t know a Paul Smith shirt if it hit him in the face.

  ‘I’ll take a cab to work on Friday then,’ said Matt. ‘You can play nursey to your friend and I’ll amuse myself here, it will make a nice change for us both.’

  But a nicer one for me, thought Tessa. All set then. She couldn’t remember when she had ever planned something so deliciously selfish and wrong.

  *

  Naked in her superking bed, Sandra stretched out her legs and feet and wiggled her toes. She raised her arms above her head and held on to the top of the upholstered headboard. Mariusz propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her in amusement.

  ‘What you doing?’

  She glanced across at him, admiring the tone of his shoulders, the ginger blonde hairs on his arms.

  ‘I’m practising mindfulness. Try it yourself.’

  Mariusz kicked back the duvet and extended his full loveliness in imitation of her pose.

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘Exactly. It’s supposed to reduce stress. Do you like it?’

  ‘Often I have me big stress, Sandra. But not when I’m with you.’

  He abandoned the position and pulled Sandra towards him. She rolled happily into him, enjoying the sensation of his skin against hers.

  ‘Do you remember, Sandra, the first time in this bed? When I put towels up at the windows?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  That was when they had the full team of workers in, scrambling around outside on the scaffolding, banging their tools and pots of paints while she and Mariusz were properly getting to know each other between the sheets. Now the towels had been replaced by sleek blinds and the walls were smoothly white, adorned only by a single painting by an emerging Russian artist.

  Sandra felt happy and relaxed when she was with Mariusz. There was none of the treading on eggshells that went on around Nigel, when she was constantly on edge, in case she said the wrong thing and set him off. She detached herself from Mariusz’ embrace and reached for her e-cigarette. Out of the question to smoke in the house but vaping was perfect. Like many smokers, she used it as a supplement to her regular habit, not as a substitute.

  She inhaled the menthol hit and passed it on to Mariusz who looked at it suspiciously then did the same. He was wearing his favourite T-shirt, which had the legend ‘High Performance’ emblazoned across the chest. His body was made to be showcased in a T-shirt, she thought. He looked even better than Poppy’s boyfriend did, with his biceps exposed by cap sleeves that could be unkind to lesser men. Poppy’s boyfriend favoured clothes bearing beer slogans, which was a source of irritation for Nigel, who couldn’t understand how any daughter of his could be attracted to such a sight.

  ‘I might have some work for you,’ Sandra said, running her hand possessively over his chest. ‘My client wants her bathroom completely refurbished and asked me if I could recommend a builder. I told her about you.’

  ‘Yes please, Sandra, I need me work,’ said Mariusz. ‘Always, I must find me more work.’

  ‘That’s the thing about you East Europeans,’ said Sandra, ‘you come over here with your work ethic and your skills and your excellent attitude . . .’

  He nodded seriously, the joke was lost on him.

  ‘Very hard worker. All my clients say I am very urgent person for them.’

  She snuggled down again into the warmth of his muscular body and looked out the window at the weak afternoon sun. It would be fun to collaborate on a project with her choosing the designs and Mariusz bringing them to life; they made a good team. It was the most primeval interpretation of the man/woman dynamic, because what every woman really wanted was a man who could do practical stuff, unlike Nigel with his lofty disdain for anything that involved a screwdriver. Maybe they could set up a proper business together, offering a design-to-completion refurbishing service.

  She inhaled on her e-cig and thought about the layout of their website; she’d take photos of Mariusz in his overalls to go alongside her own profile picture and artful shots of her recent projects. Better make that project, singular, but there would be others soon and she could always beef it up with pictures of her own house. Any woman in her right mind would want to have Mariusz as her builder once she’d seen the photos Sandra intended to take. She wondered if it would be over the top to have him strip to the waist for some of them.

  ‘What was that?’

  Mariusz sat up in the bed.

  ‘Sandra, did you hear that? I hear the door, someone has come in!’

  ‘No, it’ll be something through the letterbox,’ said Sandra. ‘Nigel’s away at a conference and Poppy’s at school.’

  ‘Hello? Mum?’

  Poppy’s voice floated up the stairs, and Sandra switched into emergency mode.

  ‘Quick! Get into the bathroom!’

  ‘Corva!’

  Mariusz grabbed his trousers and did as he was told, as Sandra leaped out of bed and hastily pulled on her clothes, listening out for her daughter. She heard the fridge door open and the sound of the kettle being filled. Good, she still had time.

  She stood by the bedroom door and practised her mindfulness breathing – three seconds breathing in, I am aware of my body. Breathing out, I release the tension in my body. Then walked casually down the stairs.

  Poppy was sitting at the table with a cup of tea, her school books spread out in front of her.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ Sandra said, in as normal a voice as she could manage. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, did you get out early?’

  ‘Yeah, English was cancelled, Mr Lamont was ill again.’

  Poppy looked up and stared at her mother.

  ‘What’s happened to you? Your cardigan’s done up all wrong.’

  Sandra looked down at her front and saw that in her haste she had misaligned the buttons.

  ‘Oh, yes, silly me, I can’t have been concentrating this morning, too wrapped up in this project I’m doing for Megan.’

  ‘Mm, Kim was telling me about that earlier. Says you’ve ordered some weird sculpture that her mum’s not sure about.’

  Sandra felt a flash of professional indignation.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry, she’ll love it once it’s in place. That’s what she’s paying me for, a bit of imagination. You’ve got to go for a touch of drama here and there, otherwise the place will look like a furniture showroom. How was skating?’

  ‘A bit rubbish, actually, the ice was melting. And I’ve only got a couple more practice sessions before the competition.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll smash it. Megan can’t believe how good you are. What did you have for lunch?’

  Poppy looked at her in amusement.

  ‘Why do you always ask me that? It’s not as if you’re interested in food in any way.’

  ‘Don’t know. Being a caring mum, I suppose.’

  ‘Caring, sharing.’

  ‘Exactly. Think I’ll join you in a cup of tea.’

  She dropped a pearl jasmine ball into a glass and topped it up from the still-warm kettle.

  ‘Are you working down here this afternoon, then?’ she asked nonchalantly. ‘Not up in your bedroom?’

  ‘Er, yes. I’m working here now obviously, and I may go up to my room later. Does it make any difference to you?’

  ‘Course not, just wondering.’

  In reality, she was wondering how on earth she was going to get Mariusz out of the house without her daughter noticing. Maybe she could tie bed sheets together and lower him out of the window on a luxury linen rope. Poppy was a fiendish worker, she could be sat there for hours. Possibly till dinner time; she might still be keeping her vigil until whenever Nigel came home.

  ‘Actually, I think I’ll take this up,’ she said, ‘leave you to it.’

  ‘’K.’

  Upstairs, she closed the bedroom door behind her and went to check out the bathroom.

  Mariusz was sitting, fully dressed, on the bucket-shaped toilet. His expression turned to re
lief when he saw it was her.

  ‘Why she home, Sandra?’ he whispered.

  ‘Lesson cancelled. Thing is, I don’t know how I’m going to get you out of here.’

  Mariusz frowned. ‘In my country, lessons never cancelled.’

  ‘Maybe, but we’re not in your country,’ she hissed. ‘And now we have to find a plan.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Lock the door,’ he said, ‘I have a plan.’

  He stood up and unbuttoned his shirt, then peeled off his trousers and boxers and pulled her into the walk-in wet room.

  ‘Very good Raindance shower, Sandra, dual function with thermostatic control.’

  He turned the dial and ripped off her cardigan, with total disregard for the buttons, followed by the rest of her clothes, and pushed her up against the tiled wall. Tuscania by Fired Earth, replicating travertine, seventy-five pounds per square metre, if her memory served her well.

  ‘No, we can’t,’ she giggled, this is crazy, YOU are crazy!’ The water cascaded down through her hair, she closed her eyes and thought this was the most daring thing she had ever done in her life.

  Twenty minutes later, cardigan now buttoned up correctly, she went downstairs again to check progress.

  Poppy’s glossy head was bent over her exercise book, her neat handwriting filling the pages. She looked up when her mother came in.

  ‘Is Mariusz here?’

  ‘Mariusz? Why? I don’t think so!’

  ‘Did he leave his boots behind then?’

  She pointed to the front door where a sturdy pair of boots were neatly lined up, covered with a film of plaster dust. The evidence, massive and incontrovertible.

  ‘Ah!’ said Sandra, playing for time as her mind whirred through the options.

  ‘Yes . . . that is, he was here earlier, then he had to go off to get some materials—’

  ‘In his bare feet?’

  ‘Obviously not. Maybe he came back then, without me noticing. He’s still got a key. I’d better check. Mariusz! Are you here?’

  She acted out her charade, going down to the basement to see if he might be fixing something in the media room, then walking back up the stairs, talking in an unnatural way, wondering aloud where he might possibly be.