Invisible Women Page 24

‘That’s because you’re a man and therefore disposed to store facts. Whereas I excel in emotional intelligence.’

  ‘Whatever that is.’

  ‘I think it means interpretation. Discarding irrelevant stuff like chemical formulae and dates.’

  Later that evening, they stood before their his ’n’ hers hand basins, engaged in their toilet rituals. Tessa wiped off her eye make-up and looked in the mirror at Matt who was flossing.

  ‘Forgot to tell you,’ he said, putting down the unappetising thread and picking up his toothbrush.

  ‘There’s this annoying new thing at work where we have meetings standing up.’

  ‘Like a drinks party, you mean?’

  ‘More like being in a tube train. It’s supposed to save time.’

  ‘Some truth in that, I suppose. Stops people dozing off over tea and biscuits.’

  ‘They won’t be doing it when the global CEO comes over next week. Napoleonic little fellow, he’ll be the shortest man in the room, much better to disguise it sitting behind a desk!’

  He paused to vigorously brush his teeth and spit into the basin.

  ‘In fact I learned today that Napoleon was five foot six, the average height for a Frenchman in those days,’ said Tessa. ‘So not really a short arse at all.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve been gorging on Radio 4 all day,’ said Matt, ‘I wish I had the time.’

  ‘Listening to the radio is compatible with many unchallenging household tasks. I do them so you don’t have to.’

  John had told her he didn’t want her to lift a finger when she moved in with him. He had a daily maid because life was too short to waste it on cleaning. He could think of far more creative ways for them to spend their days together.

  ‘That’s nice of you. Anyway, back to the Napoleonic CEO. He’s rich as Croesus, the bastard. So loaded he could afford to ditch his wife and get a second family.’

  Tessa squeezed some youth eye serum out of a tube and applied it with her finger.

  ‘You’re not thinking of doing that, then?’

  ‘Too poor, luckily for you,’ said Matt. ‘I can safely say you’ll be the one accompanying me on the retirement cruise. There’s something to look forward to.’

  He turned off the tap and went into the bedroom.

  Tessa rubbed night cream into her neck and thought about what it would be like on a cruise ship. Imagine if you were standing in front of your bathroom mirror and suddenly the cabin walls came down and you could just see a shipload of old people, flossing and cleaning their ears and taking their pills, all on the great voyage of no return.

  She took her phone out of her dressing-gown pocket and checked the latest message from John.

  I know you need time but don’t leave it too long. I need you.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Don’t vegetate as you grow older if you happen to live in the country. Some women are like cows, but there is really no need to stagnate.’

  Blanche Ebbutt, Don’ts for Wives, 1913

  Harriet struck a match and set fire to the scrunched-up newspaper at the centre of the wigwam of kindling she had constructed in the grate. The flame flickered and took hold and she sat back on her heels, gratified that she still had the knack. There was a satisfaction to be found in simple tasks in the country you just didn’t get in the city, it was one of the thrilling benefits of having a second home. She wanted to welcome her friends with the reassuring warmth of a log fire. They’d be here soon but there was just enough time for the house to heat up.

  She sat down on the Chesterfield sofa and looked round the room, every detail rich in memories. The Laura Ashley curtains that she had run up on her old Singer, the distempered walls they had painted together, the mahogany desk acquired at an auction in Evesham along with the large wardrobes that dominated the bedrooms upstairs. Like all the other yuppies, they’d been gripped by Brideshead Revisited fever, inspired by the grandiose fantasy that filled their TV screens on Monday nights. She had even knitted Sam an intricate Fair Isle tank top which he wore over pleated corduroy trousers, embracing his inner Sebastian Flyte as they arrived late on a Friday night with pots of paint and busy plans for a weekend of renovation.

  They had bought the house with Sam’s first bonus, back when he was still called a merchant banker, before the merchant bit was quietly dropped. Chipping Campden was an obvious choice, a heritage village in the heart of the sheep-filled Cotswolds, where would-be aristocrats could imagine putting down roots and founding dynasties. When the estate agent showed them round, Harriet had stood in this room and felt almost sick with longing, her stomach telling her that she had never wanted anything more than this house.

  Sam said to her once, as they were rag-rolling the bedroom – earnestly soaking a bunched-up towel in a tray of paint, then pressing it on to the base coat – that having a second home was like being married, whereas renting a holiday cottage was like having an affair. You couldn’t just walk away from a place you owned, you were in it for the long term. And like their marriage, the house was showing the strain, both of them in need of an overhaul.

  She stood up and rattled the leads, bringing the dogs to attention.

  ‘Come on Benson and Hedges, let’s go for a walk.’

  She checked her phone, no messages from the carer she had organised for Celia, that was good news. She clipped on the dogs’ leads, closed the door behind her and set off down the high street.

  They didn’t have dogs when they were first married, it would have been too constraining with them both out at work all day, and on the weekends when they weren’t here at the house, they would be off somewhere: The George V hotel in Paris, skiing in Verbier or drinking spritzers on a terrace in Cap d’Antibes. Sam always insisted on the best hotels, the most prestigious destinations, it was an upward arc of aspiration; the sky was the limit in this exciting new world of money. Sam was from an ordinary background, the same as her, elevated by his grammar school so he could aspire to Cambridge. The rewards of success were all the sweeter when you weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth.

  But you can’t buy happiness, which was why she decided to abandon her career at chambers after they’d had Alex. A simple, old-fashioned life of bringing up her children would lead to proper serenity, and by the time you’d factored in the cost of a nanny, who would require her own car and flat – no son of Sam’s was going to make do with a shared childminder or untrained au pair – she’d be breaking even at best. Standing in front of the stove on a Sunday evening, stirring a pan of homemade soup, she could still sharply recall the parallel emotions: relief that she didn’t have to worry about Monday morning; and an uneasy sense that her life had been put on hold, that she was stagnating and somehow letting the side down. Homemade soup, who needed it? Greasy Joan doth keel the pot. Shakespeare. At least she had her education to sustain her.

  They were almost at the post office, and Harriet quickened her step. It was all water under the bridge now, no point in thinking about what might have been. A colleague from her chambers had just become a high court judge; it could easily have been Harriet, who was the undisputed star pupil of her year. And now she was working as an unpaid carer for her mother-in-law.

  She tied the dogs up outside the shop and went in to chat to the owner, a zealous ex-Londoner who had made a new life for himself and his partner in the country, selling all kinds of creative knick-knacks alongside the usual Sellotape and Tic-Tacs.

  ‘Hello!’ he said, with the slightly desperate enthusiasm of someone hungry for news from the smoke.

  ‘It’s been a while, are you here for the weekend?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got friends arriving this evening.’

  ‘Oh good, that means I’ve got a reasonable chance of selling a few papers. I’ve noticed it seems a bit of a competition amongst weekenders, to see who can buy the most newspapers. Right across the spectrum, to prove how broadminded they are: the Guardian, of course, but never too snobby for the Sun.’

  Harr
iet laughed.

  ‘You’re right there.’

  She handed over her basket of groceries and let her eye wander over the till-side offerings.

  ‘Oh, what a lovely keyring, with a hand-knitted dog attached. I’ll take that, thanks, and that iron thing to pull your wellington boots off, that’s just what I need outside the back door.’

  ‘You’re my favourite customer, Harriet. Just wish we saw you more often. Now, do you need some horseradish sauce? You usually do, for your Sunday roast.’

  ‘Don’t think so, one of my guests is on duty for that.’

  ‘Good guest, the sort who sings for his supper.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She unfastened the dogs and continued her walk, up to the church, set behind a stern row of yew trees speaking of death, and into the porch, where a rota of duties had been posted on the wall. That could be me, I suppose, she thought, if I lived here all the time. I could take my turn doing the flowers and making teas and whatever it was that good churchwomen got up to. Fading away in my tweed skirt until eventually securing a plot, possibly, in this pretty graveyard where future generations of weekenders would wander aimlessly around, reading the tombstones and speculating about the lives of those who lay beneath.

  Back at the house, the dogs settled lazily in front of the fire while Harriet decanted her oxtail stew from its Tupperware box into a large Le Creuset, a wedding present from her aunt. It wasn’t a fussy dinner, not like the creations she liked to whip up in the eighties when she subscribed to A La Carte magazine, arranging curried melon balls and tiny vegetable slivers on black plates. She didn’t miss those days, really she didn’t. And soon her friends would be here and everything would be lovely.

  *

  ‘I love that building,’ Tessa said to Matt, as they drove past the art deco façade of the Hoover factory on the A40. ‘I always associate it with escaping from London.’

  In all her extra-marital excitement, she had quite forgotten about this weekend, which had been organised a while back, in the way that grown-ups like to plan things: diaries consulted, dates marked in, all spontaneity thrown aside.

  ‘You and your landmarks,’ said Matt. ‘You have measured out your life in listed buildings.’

  ‘You can talk. You’re worse than P. D. James, the way you describe every architectural feature in excruciating detail. And nobody complains more loudly than you when a building offends you.’

  ‘But I love complaining!’ he said cheerfully, as the lights turned red. ‘In fact, I enjoy it more and more with every year that passes. It really is one of the hidden benefits of middle age.’

  ‘Every man needs a hobby,’ said Tessa.

  She looked across at him, smiling behind the wheel. Sandra had suggested they travel up together in their Audi Q7, but Matt wasn’t going to lose the opportunity of parking his Maserati prominently on the high street where it could be admired.

  ‘It’s the absurd follow-up that’s best of all. I complain because I’ve got no connection and they send me a message thanking me for getting in touch but that it’s not possible to call me because my number isn’t active. Duh. Then another email about how passionate they are about customer relations, and please can I give my feedback. I should let the office sort it out but I’m enjoying it too much.’

  ‘It’s not complaining that’s making you happy, it’s being without a phone,’ said Tessa. ‘Look at you, you’re so relaxed.’

  It was true that Tessa hadn’t seen him this carefree for years. He seemed decades younger and, sitting beside him now, she could imagine they were back in the old days, before the children, taking off for a weekend on a whim. Except that her new phone was buzzing with a reminder of her recent encounter. She had finally joined the modern world this week and bought an iPhone.

  ‘You’ve got friends,’ said Matt. ‘Aren’t you going to see who it is? It could be Lola.’

  ‘Doubt it. She’ll be at some fancy-dress function. Downing double vodkas.’

  She glanced at the phone, confirming it was another message from John, the fifth of the day, then turned it off.

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ said Matt. ‘What’s happened to the weepy mother in constant hope of news?’

  ‘Let’s just switch off and enjoy ourselves, shall we?’

  ‘Well I’ve got no choice. As I’m un-connected. Did I tell you, by the way, how well the chemistry meeting went?’

  ‘Several times.’

  ‘I told them, you don’t need revolution, you need evolution. They thought it was bloody brilliant!’

  They drove on, wrapped in their separate thoughts, Matt buoyed up by the memory of his magnificent performance in front of the client and Tessa reliving her time in bed with John, dreaming of their escape to the Scottish wilds. She found it was easier to imagine them starting out together in a more familiar setting. A Hebridean island was less frightening than Wyoming, and it would be easier to see the children. The fantasy stumbled when she went too deeply into the detail. Where would she see the children? Would they even want to see her, and what would become of Matt?

  The sun was setting when they arrived in Chipping Campden, casting a soft glow on the terraces of honey-coloured houses that lined the broad high street. There was something about the Cotswold stone that allowed it to retain its luminosity, even when the light was low. Sleek cars were already parked in a look-at-me line but Matt was able to manoeuvre into a spot not far from the converted inn that was their destination. He lifted their bag and a case of wine out of the boot while Tessa took charge of the cool-box and bags of vegetables. There were shops in the village, but it was more convenient to arrive with your supplies and you’d be hard pressed to source fresh tarragon in the local Spar.

  ‘Do you remember the first time we came here?’ said Matt. ‘I’d just got my first Porsche. Not so many flash cars then.’

  ‘You could still imagine it as a sheep market town. We were the pioneering yuppies.’

  ‘Closely followed by the supermodels. In a sheep-like manner, money following the money.’

  They knocked on the door and Tessa peered through the window into the dining room, a claustrophobically dark and narrow room, filled entirely with a long trestle table and benches, still rich with the atmosphere of the public bar it once had been.

  Harriet opened the door to them and Tessa had a flashback to their first visit, Harriet flushed with excitement as she showed them round, wearing clothes not dissimilar to what she had on now – blouse, cardigan and baggy woollen trousers that were quite the thing in the 1980s, but not so much today.

  ‘Here we are again, fantastic to be here,’ said Tessa, hugging her friend and familiarising herself with the sloping floor of the long passage that ran straight down into the back garden. ‘Shall I put the food away?’

  The kitchen was three steps down, with two large fridges and open shelves of catering-size pots and pans.

  ‘I love this kitchen, it’s so no-nonsense, just like you.’

  ‘I suppose I can take that as a compliment,’ said Harriet, watching her friend unpack, ‘Ooh, is that grouse?’

  ‘Certainly is. Matt claims game is a middle-class conspiracy, but I like it, especially when it’s sexed up with beetroot and blackcurrant sauce and served with quinoa.’

  ‘You are marvellous. I’ve done a rather boring casserole for tonight.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that, Harriet,’ Matt shouted through from the dining room, where he was lining up his bottles of wine. ‘You can get a bit sick of Tessa’s over-elaboration, I’m sure she won’t mind me saying. Sam and I will enjoy a nice brown stew after a couple of pints down at the Red Lion.’

  ‘Ah.’ Harriet looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid he’s not able to make it tonight. Something’s come up at work, as usual. He’s hoping to join us tomorrow, but he’ll have to let us know.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Tessa.

  She wasn’t surprised, and nor was Harriet, judging from her stoic expression. Tessa felt a
burst of frustration with her friend. You can change things, she wanted to say, you don’t have go around with a permanent air of martyrdom. Mix it up; surprise him or leave him. It’s your life.

  ‘Too bad,’ said Matt.

  He’d been looking forward to a manly chat with Sam. Now he’d have to make do with Nigel, who wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs.

  ‘So what is it then, Harriet?’ he asked. ‘A takeover crisis? Some merger or acquisition he’s set to make a mint out of?’

  ‘I don’t know the details, but you know how it is. You men with your big jobs.’

  ‘Let’s take our stuff upstairs,’ said Tessa. ‘Which room are we in?’

  ‘I’ve put you in the front bedroom. I’ll take the attic room as I don’t even know if Sam’s going to make it. No point Matt knocking himself out on that beam.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Tessa. ‘Hardly seems fair that we should take the master suite.’

  ‘No, honestly. I like it right up at the top.’

  Matt nudged Tessa to stop protesting.

  ‘Well, if you insist. I’ll take our bag up,’ he said.

  Tessa followed him up the stairs and into a room with sloping ceiling and mullioned windows that offered Matt an uninterrupted view of his Maserati. He threw himself on to the bed.

  ‘Yes!’ he said, ‘We got the best room. Come here.’

  He opened his arms and she flopped on to the pink candlewick bedspread beside him, closing her eyes and running her fingers over the covers.

  ‘Reminds me of my childhood,’ she said, ‘blankets and hospital corners, before we got into duvets.’

  ‘Continental quilts,’ said Matt, ‘Freeing the housewife from bed-making chores.’

  ‘Please don’t use that word.’

  ‘Housewife, mousewife. I wonder if that posh cutlery shop is still here, I think I might treat you to some new knives.’

  ‘You’re all give.’

  ‘Though come to think of it, we probably don’t need any more. That’s the thing about getting older, isn’t it, you run out of things to need.’