Los Angeles, 1968
LEE LOOKED AT Dean across the breakfast table and wondered for the hundredth, possibly the thousandth time, what she could possibly do to make him eat less. He was, at forty-two, seriously overweight: the last time she had managed to get a look at the scales when he had been on them they had lurched up to two hundred and forty pounds; that was an awful lot for a man who only stood five foot ten in his socks. It wasn’t just that he looked – well, certainly not the most attractive man she had ever seen, his shirts straining desperately round his huge belly, his trousers slung awkwardly and uncomfortably beneath it (‘You’ll need them specially made soon’ she had said tartly, the last time they had been shopping for some together, ‘Or some maternity ones, like I used to wear with an elastic panel in the front’). She felt his weight was a serious threat to his health, and had only last week tried to tell him so, and suggest he cut down on the hamburgers and the fries and the beer, but he had laughed easily, and slapped his gut with his soft, dimpled hand and said he and his belly were old friends, and he was damned if any diet was going to come between them.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘if you get to grow any bigger, you won’t have any other friends. You look terrible, Dean.’
‘Miles,’ he said to the little boy, who was sitting in the living room reading comics and munching his way through a bumper bag of potato chips, ‘do you think I look terrible?’
‘No, Dad,’ said Miles without even looking up.
‘There you are,’ said Dean, ‘two friends. Miles doesn’t mind me being a little overweight, do you, son?’
‘No, Dad.’
‘Honey, you shouldn’t worry so much about these things. It’s that Amy Meredith with all her cranky nonsense about wholefood and not eating red meat, I never heard of such nonsense, man was meant to eat meat, he used to live on nothing else, a bison for breakfast on a good day, now you go tell Amy Meredith that.’
‘Well, I will if you like,’ said Lee, ‘she won’t want to hear it, but I will. And you’re wrong anyway, man was a hunter-gatherer, he ate nuts and grains as well, and vegetables. And besides if we’re going to get into all that stuff, when man was eating bison for breakfast, he was also going out and killing the bison, and getting quite a lot of exercise that way. The only thing you do to hunt your food is walk over to the refrigerator and open the door. Please, Dean, do at least think about a diet.’
‘OK,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘I’ll think about it. For five minutes every day. Before dinner. Now why don’t you start worrying about something more sensible, like your own figure. You’re skin and bone, honey. If anyone looks awful, you do.’
‘Well thanks,’ said Lee, giving up on the discussion, shooing Miles outside and turning her attention to sorting the laundry. ‘But at least I won’t be dying of a heart attack.’
‘No, malnutrition. With all those goddamned dance and yoga classes you go to, you could eat twice as much as you do. I’d like it if you were a bit rounder, honey. Bit more to get hold of. And roll around in the hay with.’
Lee thought of his massive weight descending upon her in bed, and the way, these days, she had to lie on top of him if he wanted to make love to her, and looked thoughtfully at him. Maybe this was her chance.
‘Dean, if you get to weigh any more at all you won’t be able to roll around in the hay at all. And I certainly won’t be rolling underneath you. So think about that.’
‘Oh, hell, honey, we manage.’
‘We don’t, actually,’ she said shortly, ‘or rather you don’t. Not very often. I mind about that, Dean.’
‘Hey!’ he said, beaming at her affectionately, ‘what about that? Eighteen years we’ve been married, and my wife still wants to get me into the sack. You always were a bit of a hot pants, weren’t you, honey?’ He got out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead. ‘Jesus, it’s hot. Aren’t you hot, Lee?’
‘Not terribly,’ she said. ‘You’re feeling hot because you’re so overweight. If I was lugging around two hundred pounds all day, I’d get hot. Now Dean, will you please, please think about a diet? Go see Doctor Forsythe if you don’t believe me.’
‘I might.’
But he didn’t.
That particular morning Lee didn’t in any case want to get involved in a discussion with Dean about his weight. She had a lot to do. It was nearly the end of the school year and there was Miles to get ready for summer camp; she and Amy had their ballet class, and then after that they had planned to go to the beach. Sometimes Lee wondered if there mightn’t be more to life than going to ballet classes and going to the beach, she felt somehow she was missing out on the real world, but she couldn’t see what she could do about it now, nobody was going to take on a forty-year-old housewife and give her a job, and besides there was Miles to take care of, he was still only ten, and she didn’t believe in giving kids latch keys to let themselves into the house with after school, that was where the trouble started and they got in with a bad crowd.
She wondered, as she watched Miles get into the car beside Dean, to be dropped off at school, if the way she felt a lot of the time could be described as happy. It was all a bit monotone, without any highs, or even promises of highs in the far-off distance: just a long, level road stretching ahead. On the other hand, she certainly wasn’t unhappy, she had most of what she had always wanted: a family at last (albeit only a small one), a nice house and peace of mind. She valued peace of mind very highly; the only thing that threatened it was when (increasingly rarely) she saw Hugo Dashwood.
Dean was still always delighted to see Hugo; he admired him and his English style hugely, and since he had discovered that Hugo had not after all made such a success of his business, had warmed to him still more. Dean had not made too much of a success of his business either; he got by, he had provided for his family and hung on to his job, even made chief district sales rep, but he wasn’t exactly Henry Ford. It made him feel comfortable that someone with all Hugo Dashwood’s obvious advantages should not do so well either. Anyway, Lee thought with some relief, there was no danger of Hugo coming for a bit yet; he had said he was spending the rest of the summer in England, and would contact them in what he called the autumn; she was safe for a while: safe from his probing eyes, his interest in her, his insistent friendliness, his ridiculously pressing attentions to Miles.
Miles at ten could not have been more of an all-American boy, she thought fondly; with his blond hair, his snub nose, his passion for the beach and for baseball, his hatred of anything that might smack of book-work. Nobody, nobody at all, could doubt for an instant that he was an all-American boy; in fact, why on earth did she have that thought so often, when there was no reason why they should?
Lee had managed by now to persuade herself that the relationship with Hugo had never happened; she had done this by every means she knew, from simply determinedly putting it out of her head, to (when that was not quite enough) using the meditation and visualization techniques she had learnt in her yoga classes. Most of the time she never even thought about it; it was dead, buried, like a person she might have met long ago; but every now and again, usually when she couldn’t sleep, it would rise up inside her, the memories, the knowledge, and a suffocating stifling panic, and she would have to get up and get herself a cup of tea, and sit very still, in her yoga lotus position, willing herself into calm. And in the morning, when the sun was shining and Miles was playing in the yard and Dean was tucking into his double egg and bacon breakfast, grunting contentedly at her as she set it before him, she would be able to smile at her fears and wonder how had she ever worked herself into such a state, and tell herself that nothing could hurt her now.
Only she was wrong; and it could.
The phone was ringing as she and Amy got back to the house from the beach. ‘Mrs Wilburn? This is the hospital. Casualty. We have your husband here.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Lee, clutching Amy’s hand and dropping all her things, ‘it’s happened. Dean’s had a heart attack.’
‘No, no, Mrs Wilburn, it’s all right. Nothing terribly serious. But could you get down here right away, please.’
‘Of course,’ said Lee, ‘I’ll be right there. Amy, will you drive me to the hospital? Dean’s in Casualty.’
‘Oh God,’ said Amy. ‘Oh, God. Lee, I told you he should go on a diet.’
‘Shut up, Amy, for Christ’s sake. I know, I know he should have gone on a diet. Did you ever try telling the sun to cool down? Anyway, he hasn’t had a heart attack. I don’t know what it is.’
‘Whatever it is, his weight will exacerbate it,’ said Amy. ‘There is a constant strain on his heart and all that cholesterol he consumes will have totally damaged his arteries.’
‘Amy, will you for God’s sake stop giving me a lecture on health care, and get into the car. Oh, wait, Miles will be home soon. He doesn’t have a key.’
‘I’ll come back and let Miles in, if you look like being a long time,’ said Amy. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘Oh, Amy,’ said Lee, her voice trembling, ‘what if he dies? What will I do? I’ll feel so guilty. All those eggs. All that red meat. It’ll be my fault.’
‘He won’t die,’ said Amy firmly. ‘Apart from anything else, Heaven couldn’t hold him. Half the people already there would have to leave. They said it wasn’t too serious. Hang on to that. Christ, I wish they’d do something about this traffic.’
Dean was lying in a room in Emergency when they got there. He looked pale and sweaty; a pretty nurse was taking his blood pressure.
‘Hi,’ said Lee, ‘I’m Mrs Wilburn. They said to come on up.’
‘Yes. That’s right, Mrs Wilburn,’ said the nurse. ‘I’ll go find the doctor. He said he wanted to see you.’
‘How is he?’ asked Lee, gently taking Dean’s fat, moist hand in hers.
‘Not too bad, I think. The doctor will be able to tell you, though.’
She disappeared. Lee kissed Dean’s forehead. ‘What happened, Hon?’
‘I’m not sure. I was just leaving the diner, after my lunch, and suddenly I felt very sick and swimmy. Sweaty too. Next thing I knew I was lying on the floor of the diner, and then they brought me here.’
‘What’d the doctor say to you?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Does he think it’s a heart attack?’
‘No. That’s what I thought, of course, but he said no it wasn’t. He said he wanted to talk to you.’
‘Oh, how do you feel?’
‘So so. A bit shaky. A bit sick.’
A doctor walked into the cubicle.
‘Mrs Wilburn?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Doctor Burgess. Could I have a word with you outside, please?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Lee. She suddenly felt very sick herself. Amy was out in the corridor. ‘Amy, could you possibly go and meet Miles, do you think? And maybe bring him back here?’
‘Sure,’ said Amy. ‘Everything OK?’
‘I think I’m just going to find out.’
‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘first of all, let me reassure you. He has not had a cardiac. But you’re very lucky he didn’t.’
‘So what was it?’
‘He’s simply had a blackout. His blood pressure is phenomenally high. And it was no doubt increased by the beer he had for lunch and the heat, and I imagine stress of his job. Now that in itself is not very serious. He’s fine now. But what you have to understand, Mrs Wilburn, is that if he goes on the way he is he will have a cardiac, and very soon. He is grossly overweight, his diet is frankly disastrous, and one more incident like this and I wouldn’t like to answer for the consequences.’
‘I see,’ said Lee. She felt very small. ‘Doctor, I have tried to make him diet. And exercise. But he won’t.’
The doctor smiled at her. ‘If I had a ten-dollar bill for every wife who has said that to me over the past five years I could retire right away up to the Hills. Mrs Wilburn, you have to make him. I think he’ll be more cooperative now.’
‘Yes,’ said Lee, ‘maybe for a while, but once the fright is past, he’ll just relapse into his old bad ways.’ She felt faint herself, suddenly. ‘Could I sit down?’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. Water?’
‘No, it’s OK.’
Doctor Burgess looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You’re very slim yourself. Very fit looking. You obviously know about what you should and shouldn’t do.’
‘I do, of course I do. And I am so careful with my little boy. But Dean – my husband – he just lives for his food.’
‘Well,’ said Doctor Burgess. ‘He’ll die for it if he isn’t careful. What about exercise. Does he take any?’
‘No.’
‘None? Not even walk?’
‘Least of all walk,’ said Lee, and sighed.
‘How long has he been this big?’
‘This big for about five years. Always inclined to be that way.’
‘I see. Does he suffer from stress?’
‘Not too seriously. He takes life pretty much as it comes.’
‘Well, that’s something. Does he drink a lot?’
‘Yes. A lot of beer.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Bourbon.’
‘I see. Does he smoke?’
‘Yes. But not too much. After dinner. After lunch.’
‘How is his health generally?’
‘Not too bad. He doesn’t get colds and all that stuff.’
‘Headaches?’
‘Yes, a lot of headaches.’
‘That’s the blood pressure. How does he sleep?’
‘Very well. Too well.’
‘How’s his libido?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘How often does he want to make love?’
‘Oh,’ said Lee, ‘not very often.’ She knew why he had asked that. Amy had told her that very overweight men often lost their sex drive.
‘Do you have children?’
‘Er – only one.’
‘Was that deliberate?’
‘Well – no. Not exactly. We – he – well, it never happened again.’
‘Did either of you have any investigation into that?’
‘Yes. A long time ago.’
‘How long?’
‘Before my – our little boy was born.’
She began to feel her midnight fears closing in on her, beginning to threaten her. ‘Is that – relevant?’
‘What? Oh, no, not really. Well it could be. Certainly the loss of libido. Now look, Mrs Wilburn, I think what I’m going to do is keep him in hospital overnight and then, providing he’s OK in the morning, and the blood pressure is down, he can go home tomorrow. But he has to go on a very fierce diet, he must lose at least seventy pounds, and he must start taking some sensible exercise. Nothing too radical, just some steady walking would be ideal at first. Now I’m going to talk to him very seriously about his weight, impress upon him how crucial it is. I’ll give you some diet sheets and I want to see him here in a week. And I’ll talk to your family physician and explain the situation and make sure that he keeps an absolutely regular check on your husband. He should have his blood pressure and his heart rate taken every week at least. All right? Are you all right now?’
‘Yes,’ said Lee. ‘Yes, thank you.’
But she wasn’t. She was seriously frightened.
Dean embarked on his new regime with immense seriousness. He cut out alcohol, gave up smoking and almost stopped eating red meat and butter and fries. Once a week he allowed himself a steak. He said he had to have some pleasure left in his life. He went for a walk right around the neighbourhood every evening after dinner and even bought a dog, a roly poly golden retriever called Mr Brown, to keep him company.
Within one month he had lost fourteen pounds, his blood pressure was down and his headaches were improving. After two, he had lost twenty, his headaches had gone. He looked ten years younger and, he said to Lee one night in bed, he certainly felt it.
‘I hate to admit this, Hon, but I think the old doc’s probably right. He said I’d be feeling as randy as a young man again if I lost this weight, got myself back in shape, and I do. Come over here, and let me show you how much I love you.’
He was showing her how much he loved her quite often after that. If some hovering dread hadn’t been permanently with her, Lee would have been pleased. As it was, she was fearful; and she didn’t know why.
‘You never know, Honey,’ said Dean, rolling off her one night and kissing her contentedly, ‘this whole thing may have been a blessing in disguise. We may manage to provide Miles with a little brother yet.’
‘Oh, Dean, don’t be silly,’ said Lee quickly. ‘What difference can losing a little weight make to your fertility?’
‘Oh, you don’t know, Honey, quite a lot. The doctor said obesity and high blood pressure could certainly affect your performance, and who knows but it might not affect that as well. He thought it perfectly possible.’
‘Have you been – discussing – that with him?’ asked Lee.
‘I certainly have. Why not? He asked me if there was any aspect of my health that bothered me, and I said, two things: one, I didn’t seem able to get it up any more – well, that’s cured, isn’t it – and the other, we had always had trouble conceiving children.’
‘But Dean,’ said Lee, feeling sweat cold on her forehead. ‘You know that was my fault. Not yours. Doctor Forsythe always said . . .’
‘Well, seems he might have been wrong,’ said Dean. ‘I don’t know, of course, nobody does, but Doctor Burgess says it could be me. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Time will tell.’
‘But Dean, I’m forty. Too old to have any more children. Even if – well, I could. And besides, Miles is ten. It wouldn’t work.’
‘Nonsense. My mother was forty-seven when I was born. Fit as a flea. And it would do Miles good. He’s spoilt. No, I think we should let Nature take its course. I really like the idea of being a dad again.’
‘I see,’ said Lee quietly. She didn’t sleep until dawn broke.
Three weeks later Dean came back from his check-up looking particularly cheerful. ‘Lee, I’ve taken a decision today.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m going to have some investigations done.’
‘For heaven’s sake what into?’ said Lee irritably.
Dean looked at her sharply. ‘What’s the matter, Lee? You don’t look too good. Now listen, we have to take care of you. Because I think we might well be able to be parents again.’
‘Oh, Dean, no, not that again. Please.’
‘Lee, why on earth not? You’ve loved having Miles. Why not another baby?’
‘Dean, I don’t want another baby. I’m forty. There are – risks.’
‘I know, I know. But if Doctor Burgess says they weren’t too serious, then how would you feel?’
‘Miserable,’ said Lee. She spoke without thinking.
‘Honey, I just don’t know what’s come over you. I thought you’d be over the moon about all this.’
‘About what? There’s nothing to be over the moon about.’
‘Well, there being a possibility that we could have more children.’
Lee looked at him wearily. ‘Dean, it’s a very remote possibility.’
‘Not necessarily. Anyway Doctor Burgess is arranging for me to have a sperm count. That’ll take us to first base. Then we can talk some more. You can’t object to that, can you?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Lee listlessly. She felt extremely sick. Dread had settled itself heavily and comfortably on to her shoulders. Nothing would shift it now.
It was a week later when Dean arrived home at lunch time. Lee heard him shut the front door rather slowly and carefully. She was spraying the leaves of the plants in the living room; he walked in and sat down on the couch. He looked at her, his eyes blank, his face dragged, empty of any emotion.
‘Dean, what is it? Whatever is the matter?’
‘Oh,’ he said, speaking rather slowly. ‘I think you know really, don’t you? You know what the matter is.’
‘Dean, you’re talking in riddles. Of course I don’t.’
‘I think you do. I had a sperm count three days ago. You know what the result is, of course?’
‘Of course I don’t. Don’t be so ridiculous. Why should Doctor Burgess tell me? What did it say anyway? What was it?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Lee. You know what it was. It was nix, wasn’t it? Zero. Negative. Zilcho. I have no sperms. Doctor Burgess said I was absolutely sterile.’
‘Well, probably that was being so overweight – so unwell for so long.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘I’ll tell you. You can think the truth. That I’ve always been sterile. That I could never have fathered a child. That’s what Doctor Burgess said.’
‘Well, clearly,’ said Lee, ‘Doctor Burgess doesn’t know too much what he’s talking about. What about Miles?’
‘Yes, Lee, what about Miles?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean who did father him?’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous. You know perfectly well you fathered him. He looks just like you.’
‘No, he doesn’t. He looks just like you. Lucky that, wasn’t it? Supposing he’d had red hair? Brown eyes?’
Lee shivered. ‘Dean, this is ridiculous. I’m going to call Doctor Burgess. I just don’t believe any doctor would have said you – any man – could never have fathered a child. Is that really what he said?’
Dean suddenly broke down, sobbing like a baby. ‘No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know. He said I was very very lucky I had managed to father a child. Because the sperm count was so low. I said what would he have said the chances were. He said he couldn’t say. I said what was the count. He said I wouldn’t understand. But that it was very low. He was clearly very embarrassed. Lee, I’m not a fool. I can see when I’m being lied to. Now will you for Christ’s sake tell me who Miles’ father is? Who you were fucking then. Who you’ve been fucking since. Come on, Lee, I need to know. We’re not leaving this room until you tell me.’
Lee rallied. She took a deep breath, sat down on the couch beside him. ‘I haven’t been fucking anybody. Anybody at all. Not even you very often. Until just recently.’
She sounded bitter.
‘Don’t try to change the subject.’
‘I’m not. It’s the truth.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You don’t have to.’
Dean’s eyes suddenly filled with tears again. He gripped her small, thin hand with his huge one. It hurt. Lee winced.
‘I do have to, though. I do have to believe you.’
‘Well, for Christ’s sake then, Dean, do believe me. Please. I’m telling you the truth. You are Miles’ father.’
He looked at her for a long time. She did not falter.
Please, please God she thought, please let him believe me.
‘I can’t,’ Dean said at last. ‘I can’t. I want to but I can’t. Lee, you simply have to tell me. Who was it?’
Lee stood up abruptly. ‘This is getting ridiculous. I’m going to fix you some lunch. Maybe you’ll feel calmer then.’
‘I don’t want any lunch. Sit down.’
‘No.’
‘Lee, will you for fuck’s sake sit down. Jesus, I swear to God I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me the truth.’
‘Dean, I don’t think I can stand this much longer.’
‘You can’t stand it.’ He laughed shortly, a harsh, cracked sound. ‘You can’t stand it. That’s rich. How sad for you. How painful. I am so sorry.’
He crossed to the bar and poured himself a huge slug of bourbon. Lee looked at it.
‘Dean, you shouldn’t be drinking that. You know you shouldn’t.’
‘Don’t you tell me what I should do. You have absolutely no right. No right at all. I’ll do what I like.’
‘OK.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s your funeral.’
She was to remember saying that for a long time.
They sat in silence, scarcely moving for nearly an hour. It was very hot in the living room; Dean wouldn’t let her open a window. Most of the time they were silent; just sitting there. Dean drank; Lee watched him.
Every so often he would say, ‘Who was it, Lee?’
‘Nobody,’ she would say. ‘Nobody. Let me go.’
‘No. You’re staying here.’
Once she tried to walk out, but he stood in front of the door, barring her way. He was very drunk now, red in the face, sweating heavily. He had stopped crying, or even shouting at her; he was simply waiting, watching her, willing her to crack.
She asked him if she could go out to the toilet; he accompanied her, stood outside the door. Then they went back to the living room. It smelt, stale, sweaty, alcoholic. Lee began to feel ill. She sat down on the couch.
‘Dean, I feel sick. Could you get me a glass of water?’
‘Sure.’ As he went out, he unplugged the phone, took the set with him. When he came back he handed her the glass, tipped up her chin and looked down into her face.
‘You may as well tell me. I’ll get it out of you in the end.’
She drank the water. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not.’
It was exactly like all her nightmares.
At half past three Miles came home, banging on the door, calling out, ‘Mom, Mom,’ when she didn’t answer.
She looked at Dean. ‘You’ll have to let him in.’
‘OK.’ He suddenly gripped her wrist, twisting it round. ‘Now you just keep your goddamned mouth shut. Or I swear to God I’ll tell him as well.’
He went out to the door. ‘Oh, hi, Dad,’ she heard Miles say, ‘where’s Mom?’
‘She isn’t too well. She’s lying down upstairs. Listen, can you go play with someone for a bit?’
‘Sure. I’ll go to Freddy’s. His mom’s real nice. She’ll understand. Can I take my bike?’
‘Sure.’
‘Bye, Dad.’
‘Goodbye, Miles.’
He came back into the living room.
‘You gonna tell me?’
‘No.’
Suddenly he raised his fist and struck her across the face, she felt an explosion of searing aching pain across one eye, and tasted the sweet salty flavour of blood trickling from her mouth. For the first time she was seriously frightened.
If only, if only Amy would come, she thought, she would know, she would guess something was wrong. She would get help. But Amy was away staying with her mother.
‘It’s no use thinking I’m going to get tired,’ he said. ‘That I’ll let you go. We’re staying here till you tell me.’ He looked at her shrewdly, thoughtfully, ‘What was it like?’ he said. ‘Fucking someone else? Was it as good as doing it with me? Did you think about me?’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ she said. ‘Stop asking me these questions. I can’t answer them. You know I can’t.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘you’re wrong. I know you can. What was it like, Lee? Was his dick bigger than mine? Did you come? How many times? You always were a sexpot.’ He poured himself another glass of bourbon. It had emptied the bottle. He looked down at her, angry, contemptuous. ‘You whore,’ he said, and all that was in his voice was disgust. ‘You fucking, fucking whore.’
Lee sat quite still, on the couch, curled up, her head buried in her hands. Some time, surely to God someone would come.
Later, goodness knows how much later, she heard footsteps on the front steps. The bell went. She stood up.
‘Shut up,’ said Dean, pushing her down. It went again and again. Then she heard Freddy’s mother’s voice.
‘Mrs Wilburn! Mr Wilburn! Are you there?’
‘You’ll have to go,’ she said to Dean. ‘She won’t go away. She’ll call the police if she doesn’t get an answer.’
Dean went to the door. He didn’t open it, just called through it.
‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘It’s Molly Wainwright. Is everything all right?’
Lee heard him open it a crack. Maybe Molly Wainwright would smell the bourbon on his breath, guess something was wrong.
‘It’s fine. My wife’s just gone to sleep.’
‘Well, I just called to say would you like Miles to stay over? Then Lee can sleep through till morning, and she won’t have to worry about taking care of him or getting him off to school.’
Dean cleared his throat. Lee could hear him making an intense effort to speak normally. ‘Thank you, Mrs Wainwright. That’d be fine.’
‘Could I have his things, do you think?’
‘Er – what things?’
‘His pyjamas and so on.’
‘Well – I – that is – I’d rather I didn’t disturb my wife right now. She – only she would know where they are, you see. Could you lend Miles something, do you think?’
There was a long silence. Surely she’ll think that’s odd, thought Lee. She wondered, if she made a dash into the hall, Mrs Wainwright would hear her. But some strange lethargy gripped her; her legs felt weak, her eyes were half closed. She knew she couldn’t make the effort.
‘Oh – well, all right.’ Mrs Wainwright sounded slightly dubious. ‘Is there anything I can do, Mr Wilburn? Fix Mrs Wilburn some soup or something?’
‘No. No thank you,’ said Dean. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I must get back to my wife.’
‘Is she very sick?’
‘No, no, she just has a migraine.’
‘Well, if you need me you know where I am.’
‘Sure.’
Lee heard the door slam; Dean walked back into the room.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Now we have plenty of time. I’m certainly in no hurry. I’ll just open this other bottle of bourbon and then I’ll come and sit beside you.’ He poured two glasses and offered her one.
‘Here.’
‘No thank you.’
‘Take it.’
‘I said no thank you.’
‘And I said take it. Now take it, for Christ’s sake. And drink it. I don’t like drinking alone.’
She took a swig. It was strangely comforting, burning warm in her throat, numbing the pain of her cut mouth.
Dean suddenly put down his glass, and touched her face. ‘You’re a pretty woman, Lee,’ he said. ‘Very pretty. You’re still pretty. I still get the hots when I look at you.’
Dear God, she thought, how do I handle this one? She smiled at him, trying to lighten his mood. ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘That’s really nice.’
She took another gulp of the bourbon. ‘So is this. I’m beginning to feel better.’
It was a mistake. He knocked the glass out of her hand, his face suddenly crumpled unrecognizably in rage. ‘I don’t want you to feel better. Not one bit. I want you to feel worse. Terribly, dreadfully worse. You filthy, lying bitch. Fucking with other men. Having another man’s baby. Making me think it was mine. Whose was it, Lee? Whose was it?’
‘Dean, I can’t go on with this much longer. It was your baby. Miles is your baby.’
‘Make me believe you then,’ he said, coming closer to her, grabbing hold of both her wrists, searching her face. ‘Was this how he was conceived? Was it? Like this?’
He kissed her suddenly, hard on the mouth, then threw her back on the couch; he held her down with one hand, ripping her pants off with the other. ‘Come on, Lee, show me. Show me how you did it. Show me how you did it with him.’
He smelt disgusting; of drink and sweat; Lee turned her head away from him, shutting her eyes. ‘Don’t. Please don’t.’
‘Oh, but I want to. I will. Let’s see what you can do.’
And then it was total horror; he unzipped his fly, and fell on top of her, stabbing at her with his penis; clawing at her thighs, her buttocks with his hands, kissing her again and again, pausing gasping for breath, he entered her clumsily, impatiently, and began to thrust into her, harshly, heavily. She could hardly breathe, she was crushed beneath his huge weight, she seemed to be drowning in the darkness, the pain and the foul smell. He pulled out suddenly and drew back from her, looking at her, a hideous smile on his face. ‘Is this how you like it, Lee? Is this how you did it? Tell me, tell me you like it. Tell me, Lee, I want to know.’
She was so afraid she couldn’t speak; lay looking up at him, her eyes huge, desperately trying to say something, anything; no words would come.
‘You silly, silly bitch,’ he said, ‘why won’t you tell me?’ And then he entered her again, brutally, hopelessly, and it seemed to go on for ever, and she lay there, hanging on somehow to her sanity, her courage, willing it just to be over. And when finally it was, he lay there, weeping again, and saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ and she stroked his head and said, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ and they stayed there for a long time.
Finally he said he would get her a drink, some tea or something; yes, she said, tea would be nice, and sat there trembling, not knowing what to do while he went to the kitchen. She drank the tea, and persuaded him to have some; he seemed calmer, she was beginning to think she might be able to move from the room. Then:
‘I haven’t given up,’ he said softly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I won’t let you go. Not until you tell me. I have to know.’
‘Dean, please believe me. There is nothing to tell.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ he said, perfectly normally, quite quietly, and then crossing to the bar, he took a bottle of beer out. ‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘No.’
‘You are,’ he said, and suddenly smashed the beer bottle on the edge of the bar, knocking two glasses off at the same time, and came at her with the jagged edge. ‘Tell me, Lee. You have to tell me.’
Lee felt suddenly calm. She saw quite clearly that she was going to have to tell him something; otherwise she would be dead by morning; but she also saw that if she did it right now, he would probably kill her anyway. She faced him, steady-eyed.
‘Dean, don’t. You’ll be up for assault, possibly murder. I won’t tell you anything until you’re behaving rationally. Put that down.’
He did put it down, as she had known he would, and sat down suddenly again, looking around him in a slightly puzzled remorseful way, surveying the mess, the beer over everything, the broken bottle, the smashed glasses.
‘Sorry,’ he said as if he had just knocked a cup of coffee over. ‘Sorry about that. Now, you were saying?’
‘Have some more tea, Dean.’
‘No thank you.’
‘It’ll make you feel better.’
‘All right.’
He picked up his tea cup. ‘I’m ready. For anything.’
Lee took a deep breath.
‘OK. Here it is. It was only once. Long long ago. It wasn’t an affair. Honestly. I didn’t love him. Just – just a one-night stand.’
‘I see.’
‘But – well, yes, I got pregnant. I didn’t think I could. I thought it was me that couldn’t conceive.’
‘How unfortunate for you.’
‘Yes, well. Anyway, that was it. I never ever slept with him again.’
‘Did you see him again?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Who was it then?’
‘You have to.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Then,’ he said, ‘I shall tell Miles.’
‘Why?’
‘Because,’ he said, looking at her with infinite distaste, ‘you deserve it. And he would have a right to know.’
‘But you won’t if I tell you?’
‘Possibly not. It would depend who it was.’
‘That isn’t logical.’
‘I know. This isn’t a logical situation. Do you want me to tell him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then you tell me.’
Lee looked at him. There was a long silence. Then: ‘All right. It was Hugo. Hugo Dashwood.’
‘Dear God,’ said Dean. ‘How bizarre. How unsuitable. The perfect English gentleman. Fucking my wife. Giving her a bastard baby. And never having the decency to own up.’
‘He didn’t know.’
‘He didn’t?’
‘No. I never told him.’
‘Good God.’ He turned and looked at her. All the violence, all the anger had suddenly drained out of him. He looked suddenly years older, very frail and vulnerable. ‘You’re quite a woman, aren’t you? All these years. Never told him.’ There was another long silence. ‘Imagine it being Hugo,’ he said. ‘The last person I’d have suspected. Not British, that sort of thing. Not British at all. I always liked old Hugo too. Thought he was my friend. Oh, well. At least I know. I feel kind of better now. You should have told me before. Right in the beginning.’ He sighed. ‘I feel very tired. I think I’ll go up to bed. Good night, Lee. I’ll sleep in the guest room.’
‘All right,’ she said, disconcerted by this sudden return to normality. ‘Shall I bring you some more tea?’
‘No. No thank you.’ He sighed and stood up, doing up his trousers, straightening his shirt. His eyes were full of tears; he put his hand up and brushed them away. ‘I still love you,’ he said. ‘Very very much. I always knew you were too good for me. Good night, Lee.’
‘Good night, Dean,’ she said, afraid to break the spell. ‘Good night.’
He went upstairs. She heard him going into the bathroom, heard the guest room door open, the bed groan as he fell on to it. Somehow, within her aching, trembling body she found the strength to pick up the empty bottles, to straighten the cushions, to turn off the light. It was only half past ten; it felt as if days had passed.
As she went up to her room she could hear his snores begin; he would not wake now. She would decide what to do in the morning. She went to bed.
In the night the snoring stopped. Going in early in the morning, to see if he was all right, she found him absolutely waxen – white and still, scarcely breathing, beyond help. He had taken her bottle of tranquillizers from the bathroom and swallowed the lot, washed down with the remainder of the bourbon. The verdict at the inquest was suicide whilst temporarily deranged.
Whichever way you looked at it, she thought, she had killed him.