Jim waited until he heard Chrissie go out before he phoned Nancy again. His wife had taken a sickie today, especially so she could break the bad news.
“I don’t want to sell the house,” she’d said. “I’ve told the agent to take it off the market.” Her tone was defiant.
They were in the kitchen, as usual, the only place they ever met, and it was gone ten. He had a student at ten-thirty, so her timing wasn’t great: they couldn’t have it out properly before Brian—a bloke Jim’s age who fancied a retirement hobby—was punching the bell upstairs. As a result he’d given a crap lesson, hardly able to concentrate for the ramifications.
“You can’t do that,” Jim told her.
“I can. I own this house too. You can’t do anything without my permission.” She was unusually calm, which unnerved him.
“But you said—you said you were okay with it.”
“Well, I’m not. I love this house. I don’t see why you should push me out just because you’ve got a new tart you want to shack up with.”
“She’s not a tart.” Jim had told Chrissie about Nancy a couple of days before, thinking he should be honest with at least one of the women in his life. And that had been his mistake. Although his wife had suspected for a while that he had someone else, the fact of it did not go down well. And this was her revenge.
“Whatever. Phil at work says you have no right to sell it if I don’t want to.”
Fuck Phil-at-work, Jim thought. Busybody should keep his nose out of other people’s affairs.
“You’ll have to get a mortgage, then, buy me out,” he said. “Or what am I supposed to do? Stay shackled to you for the rest of my life?”
“Is that how you see it? ‘Shackled’? Bloody arse you’ve turned out to be, Jim Bowdry.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that we can’t live together anymore, Chrissie. You must see that.”
But whether she did or not, she was clearly enjoying her moment of power over him.
“Well, I’ll just have to divorce you,” he said eventually, after a lot more spiteful wrangling. “Make it legal. I didn’t want to do that yet because it’s expensive and neither of us has much to spare, but there’s nothing else for it.”
He’d thought that might do the trick. Chrissie was notoriously close with money. But she’d just shrugged.
“I won’t have to pay.” She glared at him defiantly. “Do your worst, Jim. I’m past caring.”
Which obviously wasn’t true, or she’d have sold the house, as they’d agreed, and got on with her life.
So then, to cap it all, he’d gone and been rude to Nancy. He’d felt almost sick, seeing the surprise on her face when he’d snapped at her. He wanted to spill the whole thing out, get it over with there and then. But he just couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
As soon as he’d got home, he’d phoned Andrew Sitter and made another appointment. The solicitor didn’t seem surprised to hear from him so soon. But what upset Jim was that there was no prospect in view of getting shot of his wife any time soon. Divorce took an age, and the deeper he got in with Nancy, the worse the betrayal would seem.
So it was with reluctance that he picked up the phone now, the lie looming huge in his central vision. She answered at once.
“Hi, Jim.”
“Okay to talk?”
“Yes. Mum’s gone to bed. God, what a day.”
“Do you want me to come over for a bit?” he asked. Nancy had not invited him back to her house yet. Because of her mother, he assumed.
Nancy sighed. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m tired. I think I’ll just get an early night.”
He listened as she told him about her daughter’s problems. “Is this son-in-law of yours a bit of a dick?”
“No. Selfish, maybe, obsessive. My daughter’s not always easy.”
“He’s not being violent, is he?”
“God, I hope not. Lou was playing it down. Insisted it wasn’t as bad as the girls were making out.” He heard her sigh again. “It’s difficult, living so close, being so involved with them all. I don’t want to create a situation . . .”
“Families, eh?” he said, and she gave a soft laugh.
“Yes, always something. How’s it going with your son?”
“Fine.”
“Is he staying for long?”
Jim didn’t know how to reply. He’d forgotten what reason, if any, he’d given for Tommy being at home in the first place. “He hasn’t said.” He winced, still hoping that somehow this tangled mesh of untruths would quietly smooth out, like a shiny satin ribbon, and leave him free to follow his dream.
“By the way, you’ve been asked for lunch on Sunday,” Nancy was saying.
“With the family?”
“Yup. Louise and Ross, the girls, Mum. Could be others—Ross likes a crowd. Can you cope?”
Jim laughed nervously. “Not sure. Especially after what you’ve just told me. Sounds like a bit of a hornets’ nest.”
“That’s my family you’re calling hornets!”
“Ha. Sorry.” He paused. “Would you like me to come?”
“I would . . . and I wouldn’t.”
“Helpful.”
He heard her chuckle. “I would, because I’d love you to meet them, and them you, obviously. And see the house, see where I live. And I wouldn’t, because everyone will be looking you over, assessing you.”
“And you’re worried I won’t measure up?”
“God, no! It’ll be awkward, that’s all I’m saying. But we’ll have to do it some time, I suppose, if we’re . . .”
He didn’t dare finish her sentence for her.
*
It was pouring with rain on Sunday morning as Jim got into the car he shared with his wife and drove north out of the city. The torrential summer downpour pounded on the roof and sluiced the windshield, reminding him that he should replace the worn wiper that was screeching uselessly back and forth across the glass. He hardly used the car, but Chrissie never bothered with any maintenance, just left it to him.
He did not consider himself a nervous person, socially speaking, but now his stomach was knotted with anxiety at the thought of being scrutinized by Nancy’s family. He didn’t know a lot about her previous husband—she didn’t talk about him much—but it was clear he was a highly educated classical musician of some standing. What was the family going to think of a broke country singer who did gigs in pubs and clubs and taught guitar to make ends meet? He couldn’t imagine they would welcome him with open arms. But, worse, would seeing him through her family’s eyes change Nancy’s view of him?
He found the address too early. He didn’t want to burst in on Nancy, so he drove around, parked beside a gate to a field and listened to music on his iPod for twenty minutes, which did little to soothe his nerves. He’d had a late gig the night before and he was tired. “Shit,” he said out loud, banging the steering wheel angrily. Pull yourself together, Jim Bowdry. A ciggie would steady him—since the row with Chrissie, he’d lapsed a bit, had a few—but there was no way he could meet Nancy reeking of smoke.
His phone rang. Tommy. He’d left a few messages for his son, and now, although he wasn’t really in the mood, he knew he had to take the opportunity to talk to him.
“What’s going on, Dad?” Tommy asked, after a brief greeting. His son’s voice was light, bewildered rather than accusatory. Taking after his mother, Tommy was a slim, pale boy, with his mother’s marmalade hair. Good-looking but a bit nerdy, he’d gone through his childhood without causing many ripples, his mother always the main act in the family. “Have you really hooked up with someone else?”
“Yes . . . Yes, I suppose I have.”
“Would have been good to hear it from you,” Tommy said mildly.
“I know. Sorry, I should have called sooner. I’m afraid I’ve made a bollocks of it with everyone.”
He heard Tommy chuckle. “Yeah, seems you have. Mum’s going mental.”
“You know we haven’t been . . . together for a long time, me and your mother. Not in a proper way.” He wasn’t sure how much Tommy really understood about his parents’ marriage, most of his information gleaned from Chrissie.
His son was silent for a moment. “Tell me about this woman, Dad.”
“Nancy, her name’s Nancy. I . . .” He stopped. How to tell his son that he loved someone other than his mother? “She’s . . . Well, I hope you’ll meet her soon. She’s my age, a pianist . . .” He couldn’t think of anything else to say about Nancy without seeming to compare her to Chrissie. Now he was beginning to understand why Nancy had had such trouble telling her daughter about him. Tommy didn’t speak, so he went on, “I’m very fond of her, and—”
“Okay, Dad,” Tommy interrupted. “Don’t want to slip into the too-much-information zone. Well, Mum’s just going to have to suck it up, I guess. But go easy on her, eh? She sounds like she’s on the edge.”
“Sure. But you know your mum, Tommy, she likes a bit of a drama.” Which was obviously the wrong thing to say because there was an immediate harrumph from his son.
“For God’s sake, Dad, you can hardly call breaking up a ‘drama.’” Tommy’s voice was suddenly spiky. “That makes it sound totally unreal. It must be mega-stressful for Mum, especially at her age, being on her own. Okay for you, you’ve found someone new, but Mum’s losing everything.”
Jim wanted to remind his son that he hadn’t started this, that his mother’s infidelity was the problem here. But instead he said, “I know it’s hard for her. It’s hard for us both.”
“Maybe,” Tommy conceded reluctantly, “but you still have to look after her. Even though you’re splitting up, you have to make sure she’s okay. Promise me, Dad.”
Jim promised. “Tommy, I’m sorry about all this. Sorry for not being in touch. Been a difficult time, but no excuses.”
“It’s okay.” Tommy’s voice was kind. “Just call me once in a while, yeah?”
They said goodbye on a subdued note, and Jim knew he could have handled things better. But that, he thought, as he saw the time and realized he was now late, seemed to be the story of his life.
By the time he pulled into Nancy’s drive, he was feeling headachy and uncertain. If he’d had any choice, he’d have turned tail and fled.
The sight of Nancy coming out to greet him, however, brought a smile back to his face. She put her arms round him.
“So glad you’re here,” she said.
“Sorry I’m late,” he whispered, casting an eye toward the big house. “I’m scared to death.”
She laughed up at him, her gray eyes so loving that a bolt of absolute joy ran through his body, banishing all his worries about Tommy and the lunch ahead.
“Just be yourself,” she said, eyeing him up and down, clocking his black jeans—new for the occasion—his pressed white shirt with the black trim and buttons, his leather belt with the ornate silver buckle depicting a praying cowboy he’d got aeons ago from a guy he’d met in Memphis. “You look great.”
He grinned. “Should do, took me long enough.”
It started well. Ross, Jim saw, was larger than life as he manically stirred the contents of a vast steel paella pan with a huge wooden spatula, a jug of stock in his other hand, sweat pouring from his face, his laugh reverberating round the hot kitchen.
“Grab a glass, Jim, great you could come. Try this lovely little Rioja Blanco I found online, unless you’d prefer red, of course,” he said, bashing Jim on the back in welcome. “At last, a man to rescue me from this sea of women.”
“Yeah, you’re so hard done by,” Louise countered good-naturedly.
Jim took his first sip of the delicious wine, grateful that everyone appeared to be in a good mood. Even Nancy’s mum looked better than he’d expected—and beautifully turned out—given Nancy’s gloom about her condition. Although he thought she was eyeing him with a certain amount of suspicion.
It was quite a while later—and a couple of glasses of Rioja, another of a very palatable Tempranillo—that they were finally seated, the luscious paella posed in the middle of the farmhouse table like a guest of honor, vibrant with color: saffron yellow, orange, pink, the shiny black of the mussel shells and green of the scattered parsley, pale lemon wedges neatly lining the metal pan. Jim thought he might faint from hunger as the rich, pungent aroma filled the air. He hadn’t eaten any breakfast in an effort to avoid the kitchen and his wife.
Louise was holding the long spoon toward him. “Help yourself, Jim.”
He looked at how much the others had taken and fought against the desire to pile his plate to the ceiling.
“You’re a country singer, Mum says,” Louise began, when they all had food in front of them. Jim couldn’t see Nancy in her daughter: Louise’s features were small and sharp—boyish almost—her eyes a wary blue, although he could see how attractive she was when she smiled.
“Umm, yeah.” He stopped, unable to think of anything intelligent to say. But Nancy’s daughter seemed to be waiting for more and silence fell. He swallowed a piece of chicken, which suddenly seemed huge and unwieldy in his mouth, and tried again. “I have a band, the Bluebirds, but mostly I sing solo, write songs. One of my songs made it into the top ten a while back.”
“Great—what was it called?” Louise was smiling encouragingly.
“Oh, you won’t have heard of it,” he said.
“I will. I love country music,” Ross shouted from the far end.
“‘Don’t Pretend You Love Me,’” he said.
“Wasn’t that the Judd Brothers?”
“Well remembered. It was their cover that made it into the charts. But I wrote the song.”
“Wow, good one.” Ross beamed. “Louise hasn’t a clue what you’re talking about. She thinks country and western is cheesy and cheap, don’t you, love?”
Jim saw her mouth tighten.
“I haven’t really listened to much,” she said.
“Don’t worry, most people won’t admit to liking it, even if they do. Sort of a guilty secret,” he said.
“I’d be quite happy to say I liked it if I did,” Louise said, with a stiffness that surprised him.
“I’m sure you would,” Jim said, realizing his response echoed Louise’s acerbity more than he’d intended. He saw her frown, but his head was heavy with booze and he suddenly couldn’t think entirely straight. Casting a look at Nancy, he saw that her expression was tense.
“I didn’t mean . . .” He tailed off as Louise got up from the table and fetched a glass jug of water from the fridge.
“You know Nancy’s husband has his own madrigal group, the Downland Singers?” Frances, who had barely said a word up until then, was sitting next to Jim. Now she turned her gaze on him, a slight challenge in her faded blue eyes.
“I’m not married to him anymore, Mum.” Nancy spoke up from across the table.
The old lady ignored her. “They really are marvelous. You should listen to them some time.”
“I don’t imagine Jim is particularly interested in madrigals, Granny,” Louise said.
“Can’t blame him for that,” Ross muttered, glancing at Jim and raising his heavy eyebrows a fraction in brotherly solidarity, then turning away to concentrate on serving second helpings of paella.
“I’m interested in any form of music.” Jim addressed this to Louise. “But you’re right, I don’t know much about madrigals.”
“Jim has a beautiful voice.”
He gave Nancy a quick smile, grateful for her support.
“Really? Well, you must sing for us one day.” Frances was gracious now and bestowed on him a queenly half-smile.
Christ, this is turning out to be a sodding train wreck, Jim thought. Change the subject, man, just change the bloody subject, he urged himself.
Ross held out his hand for Jim’s plate.
“Fantastic food,” Jim said, reaching over to give it to him, at the same time knocking his glass with his elbow. It tipped over on the wooden table, spilling a sea of red wine across the surface and directly into Frances’s lap.
“Bugger!” The word was out before he could stop it as he grabbed the glass and set it upright, bringing his pristine white cotton napkin down on the wine in a vain attempt to stop the flow. Frances had jerked her chair back, lifting the skirt of her cream linen dress to shake the liquid off, her face set, not uttering a single word.
“Bugger, bugger, bugger!” Jazzy repeated the word in a dreamy voice from the end of the table.
“Jazzy, stop it!” Louise’s voice rang out across the room. “That’s a very bad word. You must never, ever say it again.”
Jim saw Hope’s eyes widen with what appeared to be enjoyment and he shot her a desperate look. “Sorry—I’m so sorry. It just slipped out,” he mumbled, as he continued to dab ineffectually at the spilled wine until Louise snatched the napkin from him and efficiently mopped the surface with a yellow cloth she’d brought from the sink.
“Are you okay, Granny?” she asked, through gritted teeth, ignoring Jim completely.
Jim looked at Nancy, expecting the worst, but was surprised to see her trying to repress a smile. It was all he could do not to grin back.
There was an uneasy silence.
“Think I’ll check on the pudding.” Ross, face impassive, heaved himself to his feet, patting Jim on the shoulder as he went past, which must have infuriated Louise, because a second later she’d left her grandmother’s side and was dragging Ross by the sleeve of his T-shirt toward the door. A door shut in another room, and there was the sound of muffled voices.
“I’m so sorry about your dress,” Jim said to Frances, to receive a small raise of the eyebrows in response.
Nancy got up. “Shall we nip home, get that off you and in to soak, Mum?” she asked, as her mother continued to sit there in silence, the dark stain huge and accusatory on the light fabric.
Jim didn’t know what to do or say to save the moment, so he kept silent and wished to God he’d never agreed to the lunch. He’d known it was a bad idea, and he was pretty sure Nancy had too, but they had both convinced themselves it would be all right.
He watched Nancy walk slowly across the gravel, her hand under her mother’s elbow, leaving Jim alone with the two girls. They were staring at him expectantly, clearly intrigued as to what he might do next.
“It’s not going well, is it?” he said, giving them an apologetic smile.
“Mummy gets cross with us when we spill things too,” Hope said.
Jazzy nodded. “She says we should look what we’re doing.”
“Your mum’s right.”
“Do you play the piano when you sing?” Hope asked.
“I can play it . . . not as well as your grandmother, though. But no, I play guitar.”
“Can you sing ‘Let It Go’?” Jazzy was suddenly animated.
Jim frowned. “I don’t think I know that one.”
“You haven’t seen Frozen?” The younger girl looked astonished. “It’s about this princess called Elsa who turns everything to ice and she hurted her sister by mistake, but they love each other in the end.”
“Sorry, I seem to have missed it.”
Hope shook her head at Jazzy in a slightly condescending manner. “It’s for children, Jazzy.”
“Sing me the song and I’ll see if I recognize it,” Jim said, reducing both girls to embarrassed giggles. “Go on.”
Jazzy frowned and shook her head, but after a minute Hope, looking acutely self-conscious and taking a deep breath, to Jim’s delight began to sing.
She sang what Jim thought must be the chorus, with real passion, her young voice gaining strength to become clear and tuneful. After a minute or two, Jazzy joined in, waving her arms theatrically as a singer might.
When they stopped, both pink in the face, he clapped enthusiastically. “Brilliant! That was brilliant, girls. Not an easy thing to do, sing unaccompanied.”
They were grinning from ear to ear now. “We did it in a show at this theater group we go to after school,” Hope told him. “Jazzy’s seen the film about a hundred times.”
At that moment, Ross reappeared and Jim heard Louise running upstairs. “Sorry about that.” He stood by the work island and rubbed his hands together, offering a tense grin to his daughters and Jim. “Who wants meringues and homemade strawberry ice cream?”