“CHARLOTTE!!!” COME AWAY FROM that television. Turn it off!”
Stephanie sighed with exasperation as her daughter remained unmoved, her eyes glued to the screen where Andrew and Harriet were sat on their red leather sofa either side of a woman sobbing for Britain.
“What’s the matter with her?” Stephanie asked in spite of herself.
“Ssshhhhh!” Charlotte flapped a hand in annoyance.
Across the screen in a matching squashy armchair a man sat stony-faced as Harriet thrust a mike and her cleavage towards him. “So you’re adamant the marriage is over, Brian?” she yelled as the sobs hit a crescendo. “Despite Maureen saying how sorry she is?”
“She was in bed with him from the wood yard,” Brian intoned robotically. “That’s that, that is.”
Harriet turned to camera and lowered her voice. “Maureen and Brian have been married for nineteen years and have three children,” she said mawkishly. “All are very distressed by their mother being ejected to the shed…”
Stephanie crossed to the TV set.
“No! Don’t!” wailed Charlotte twisting her head round her mother for a glimpse of Andrew Carlisle’s white teeth.
He flashed a great mouthful of them. “Like many happily married couples, Harriet and I are no strangers to the attraction of temptation,” he said, oozing sincerity. “But we also know…” Stephanie was momentarily stopped in her tracks as Andrew and his wife leant across and clasped hands over the top of the woman’s heaving form, “that the secret of happiness is total fidelity…” Stephanie snapped off the power and Andrew mercifully vanished.
“Mum!” Charlotte screeched, hurling the remote control at the sofa. “I hadn’t finished watching that.”
“It’s time to go to school!”
“You’re well unfair.”
“And Dad’s going to be well late if he doesn’t leave in a minute. Now go and get ready.”
“Why can’t you take us, then?” Charlotte said, belligerently, staying exactly where she was.
“I’ve got Sue coming at nine to do reflexology before I go to work.”
“Yes, it’s always about you, isn’t it?”
“What?” said Stephanie, taken aback. “What are you talking about?”
“Nobody cares about me in this house!” Charlotte flung herself onto the sofa too. “I’m not allowed to go out or have any fun…”
“That is not true…”
“It is true! You switch off the television when I’m watching it. You keep me in here, you’re always going on, you won’t let me do anything.”
“What do you mean? You do lots of things!”
“You wouldn’t let me go to Sean’s Party!”
“He’s eighteen! It was in a pub!”
“Emma’s mum let her go.”
Stephanie raised her eyebrows. “You’re telling me that Emma went to a pub on a Saturday night? I shouldn’t think they’d let a twelve-year-old in.”
“I didn’t say she went,” said Charlotte screwing up her face and fixing her mother with a look of pure disdain. “I said she was allowed to go. Her mum would have let her but Emma didn’t want to go without me.”
“Oh right!” said Stephanie. “Well next time I’ll phone Emma’s mum, shall I?”
Charlotte glowered. “And you didn’t let me go to that disco,” – she adopted a dreary whine that was supposed to be an imitation of her mother’s tones – “because it’s a school night.”
“Well that’s perfectly reasonable,” said Stephanie crossly, “you don’t do your homework half the time as it is.”
“It’s abuse!”
Stephanie fought the urge to slap her.
“Don’t be so ridiculous! We’ll talk about this later,” she added hearing George’s feet coming down the stairs. ”You’ve got to go to school.”
“Yes,” screamed Charlotte, now clearly scraping the barrel for fresh proof of her victimisation, “I get sent to school while you sit here gossiping with your friends.”
“I’m helping her with her college course!” Stephanie said, wondering how she had come to be defending her movements to a stroppy pre-teen.
“You said it was lovely and relaxing and you really enjoyed it!” Charlotte spat accusingly.
“Well that’s OK isn’t it?” Stephanie felt her temper rising. “Aren’t I allowed to enjoy myself?”
Charlotte blew out her cheeks, her voice sneering. “What would you know about enjoyment. You are just so sad.”
“What’s going on?” George appeared in the doorway and adopted his best children-should-be-seen expression. “Don’t be so rude to your mother, and get a move on!”
Charlotte flounced past him muttering darkly about Childline.
“Don’t let her upset you,” he said to Stephanie. “Probably just her hormones.”
She nodded gratefully as he gave a sudden and surprising grin.
“Can’t think where she gets that from.”
Her own hormones were in bloody uproar, Stephanie decided. Ever since she’d arrived at work Troy had sent a series of texts ranging from the mildly suggestive to the downright pornographic till she’d barely been able to concentrate.
And she was supposed to be getting the hang of the helpline. “We need to train someone else up to do this,” Madeleine had said casually. “I’ll put the phone on speaker – have a listen in – see what you think.” Stephanie thought it was terrifying. Women phoned up in varying states of panic and desperation while Madeleine dispensed advice. Stephanie wouldn’t have known where to start. She could just about have cobbled together excuses for how to explain one’s car parked in the wrong place all night or being seen leaving a restaurant with a man when you’re supposed to be out with your sister but she’d have been at a complete loss when Mrs BR came on the phone.
The woman’s voice was completely frantic. “He’s read all of it,” she shrieked. “What am I going to do?”
“Take some deep breaths,” said Madeleine briskly. “Now, what’s happened?”
BR’s voice rang out round the room. “He was supposed to be away till tomorrow,” she wailed. “But he came back early and the letter was still on the kitchen table.”
Madeleine shook her head in disapproval. “And what does it say?” she asked.
“Everything – how good it was to spend the night with me and how he hoped John would go away again soon.” Stephanie bit her lip. God, even Madeleine wouldn’t be able to talk her way out of that one. But Madeleine was firing off questions. “Typed or handwritten? Sent through the post? Addressed to you personally? Hmmm.” She frowned while Stephanie found herself twisting her own hands anxiously as she listened to the woman’s rapid breath on the other end of the line.
“I just ran out of the house,” she was saying. “I came in and saw him standing there holding it and I didn’t know what to do…”
“Hmmm.” Madeleine sat quite still, apparently deep in thought. “What’s your job?”
“Oh!” BR sounded surprised. “I work part-time at the doctor’s.” Madeleine sat up straighter. “Ah! Doing what?”
“Receptionist.”
“Good.” She nodded at Stephanie. “And tell me, how did he sign the letter?”
“All my love D.”
“Just the initial?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Got it! This is what you say…”
“Yes?” the woman’s voice was suddenly filled with hope.
“You say,” said Madeleine slowly, “you say that D stands for Daphne…”
What? Stephanie looked at Madeleine in surprise. Even if he were daft enough to believe it, it was still sex with someone else!
BR clearly shared her doubts. “Oh no, I couldn’t.” The woman’s voice rose. “He talks in the letter about Saturday night – how he bent me over the –”
“Never mind that,” interrupted Madeleine. “We don’t need the details. You say it was written by Daphne who is a patient at the surgery and who has developed an unhealthy obsession with you.” There was silence at the end of the phone. “You say she suffers from a delusional disorder known as erotomania and she believes that you and she are engaged in an affair.”
“But –”
“You tell him that she overheard you telling another receptionist that your husband was going to be away and her fevered imagination ran riot. That she has convinced herself you’ve been lovers. You throw yourself into John’s arms and say how frightened you’ve been without him there to protect you – how you wonder where it will all end. You talk of the phone calls she’s made that you didn’t want to worry him about and now this letter…” Madeleine went on, now fully into her stride.
“He won’t believe me,” BR still sounded uneasy.
“He will believe you.” Madeleine was firm. “Because tonight Daphne is going to appear at your gate, clutching a bunch of flowers and gazing adoringly up at your bedroom window until your husband in manful fashion goes outside and moves her on.” Stephanie put a hand over her mouth.
“Daphne will declare her passion for you, referring to her letter and telling your husband she spent the previous night in your bed – describing your room in such inaccurate detail that he is totally convinced she is not only completely unhinged but has never been near the place.”
“Oh.” BR seemed lost for words.
“He will give her a flea in her ear and she will scuttle away never to return and you can be forever grateful for his macho intervention.”
“Suppose he wants to talk to her doctor?” said BR suddenly recovering.
“Hippocratic Oath,” said Madeleine immediately. “Doctors can’t discuss patients! And you will say that this sort of thing is an occupational hazard of your job and you don’t want anyone thinking you can’t cope. I’ll get Jo to sort a ‘Daphne’ right away.”
The woman appeared to be weeping with relief. “Thank you! Thank you!”
“And remember,” finished Madeleine sternly, “What’s the golden rule about paper?”
“I don’t…”
“You never write on it and you don’t keep it!”
She put the receiver down over a further gush of thanks and turned to Stephanie who was still open-mouthed. “They never listen. Tell Jo to get hold of RG – she calls herself an actress though I’ve never known her be in anything – and get her round there tonight in a headscarf and a pair of ankle socks, looking deranged. I’m really going to slap on the expenses for this one. Imagine leaving it on the table,” Madeleine raised her eyebrows, “a bit of sex and they lose all reason.”
Indeed. Stephanie rushed from the office on the dot, ignoring Madeleine’s knowing looks, driving straight home and diving into the shower. Somebody saner might have made it a cold one but Stephanie, buzzing with her own recklessness and nerve, had had a long, hot, steamy one, smothering herself in body-smoothing lotion, dabbing on perfume, sending Troy a text instructing him to come round immediately.
She looked at her watch as she heard his foot on the path outside the open front door. Forty-five minutes left before the kids came out of school. She was trembling. Her shirt was undone just an inch or two below normal, her hair still damp, tousled in the abandoned way he’d told her he loved it. Underneath the shirt, another new shove-them-up-and-out red lace bra was cutting into her ribs but it would be worth it for the look on his face when he started undoing her buttons…
She felt wicked, wanton, daring – free!
The morning after the last time she’d been in a blind panic. She’d woken with palpitations, convinced someone would tell George his wife had been spotted clutching a strange man on a bike or doing obscene things on a park bench. Troy had hugged her when she told him.
“No one’s going to find out, babe,” he said affectionately. “That was just your hangover.”
“But what’s real?” she’d asked agitated. “My feelings change all the time. When I’ve been with you I’m high. A couple of drinks and I’m carried away, confident, believe in us, that we can’t help this.”
He’d nodded, held her, “That’s right, babe, that’s right.”
“But other times, I know what we are doing is wrong, I feel guilty and ashamed. Selfish! And supposing George –”
“He won’t.”
“This is the real you,” he’d said, rubbing her hair. “That bright, bold precious free spirit you used to be – just taking a little happiness. Life’s short Steph. I won’t be here for ever.”
No. It would be over soon. It had to be, didn’t it. She’d be off this emotional roller-coaster and back to reality. This was a mad interlude before she accepted age and things past – a last, final taste of Troy.
“Darling!” She bobbed into the hall to greet him.
Jesus! Her heart jumped so alarmingly she thought for a moment she was in the throes of a coronary.
George!
“You made me jump!” she said feebly, the best her reflexes could manage to explain her popping eyes and the beads of sweat that had sprung out on her forehead. Her hand went guiltily to her buttons.
“Had a meeting cancelled,” George said, “thought I may as well come home. See how you were,” he added.
“I’m just off to school. Collect the children,” she gabbled, fumbling with her shirt. “Got to see Millie on the way. I’ll just get my shoes on…”
Her hands were shaking as she forced her heels in. What was she going to say if Troy walked in before she had managed to get out?
George would recognise him, of course he would. Stephanie remembered them facing each other years ago, across the threshold of the empty flat. “I have no interest in you,” George had said when Troy tried to explain. And Troy had smiled. That you-have-no-grasp-of-the-power-of-the-universe and I-feel-sorry-for-you-because-you-are-a-poor-unenlightened-capitalist smile. He’d tried to include Stephanie in it – tried to say with his eyes, “What are you doing with him?” She had turned away, embarrassed.
George was talking but she hadn’t heard a word he said.
“Is that OK?” He had taken his suit jacket off and stood before her in his shirt, looking perplexed.
“Yes. Sorry, what?” The front door still gaped open. Troy could appear in the hall at any moment.
“I’ve got a game at seven. So I’ll eat later.”
“Right.” She grabbed at her handbag, nervous fingers shuffling at the pot on the hall table for keys.
“Are you all right?” George frowned.
“Just in a rush. Told Millie…” She hurried towards the door, hearing him sigh behind her. “See you…”
There was no sign of him outside. She pulled cautiously out of the drive looking both ways up the road, wondering what to do. What would Madeleine do?
Suppose she drove off and he turned up in a minute and rang the doorbell. Should she pull round the corner and keep watch? Whatever had possessed her? She should have gone to his house. She scrabbled in her handbag for her phone, hands still trembling. There was a text message already waiting. Oh thank God.
saw G car am up road x
She slumped in relief. Of course – the car.
Troy was laughing when he answered the phone. “I wondered if you’d be panicking.”
“Well for God’s sake, of course I was! Imagine if you’d come face to face.”
“But we didn’t.”
She could picture the indulgent smile on Troy’s face. It was all a game to him.
“You haven’t really got the temperament for this have you, sweetheart? Far too jumpy.”
Jumpy? She was still on the verge of a heart attack.
No I bloody well haven’t.