Chapter 9

 

 

 

'He wants a payslip.'

'Mmm?'

'He wants a payslip.' Isabel looked at Patrick stretched out on the bed stark naked, eyes closed, as unselfconscious as a cat. She pulled the sheet more tightly around her. Patrick opened one eye and squinted at her.

'What are you rambling on about, darling?' he said on a yawn.

'Neil. He wants me to have a payslip to give to his accountant.'

Patrick considered this for a moment then shut his eye. 'Prat.'

'Patrick!'

'Man's a complete arse.'

'He's my husband.'

'I rest my case.' Patrick rolled over and twitched the sheet away from her. 'Look at you. La bellezza.' He ran his hand over her outline. 'You must let me photograph you one afternoon.'

Isabel reached for the sheet again; too hard to concentrate on holding your tummy in and talk at the same time.

'Seriously, what am I going to do?'

'Ignore him. Let me teach you Italian. This is your pancia, your ance, your lovely coscia and down here, down here is your figa. C'mon, relax.'

'I can't,' said Isabel, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

'Don't go. I was going to teach you about my erezione.'

'I can guess what that is.' Isabel started to get dressed.

'For a mistress you're being very boring.' Patrick flopped back on the bed. 'I wish I hadn't given up smoking. This is just the right moment for a lungful of tar.'

Isabel paused from doing her new jeans up. 'Is that what I am? A mistress?'

Patrick shrugged. 'What else? Employee, if you prefer. What's wrong with mistress anyway?'

'It's just -' Isabel paused, trying to work out in her own mind what she felt. All these labels defining her with reference to someone else. Wife, mother. Now mistress. She watched a shaft of sunlight filter through the curtains and light up a slice of shimmering dust motes. There was hardly any furniture in the room, just a chest of drawers and a chair as well as the bed. Several heaps of clothes were dumped on the floor.

The phone started to ring and she crossed the landing into the office room, tugging down her sweatshirt as she went. 'Patrick Sherwin Associates... yes, I'll just see if he's available.' She held the phone to her chest. 'It's Andrew. Are you available?'

'No. Damn, I should speak to him. Tell him I'm coming.' Patrick started to pull his trousers on. 'Make me a coffee, would you, hon?'

'He's just coming,' Isabel told the long-suffering Andrew, then put the phone down on the table and went downstairs to the kitchen.

Only three weeks, she thought, staring out of the window and waiting for the kettle to boil. Three weeks ago I was standing here watching Patrick get wet in the rainstorm. And now I'm his mistress. Mistress. Such a loaded word. She smiled, picturing herself on a chaise-longue, dressed in a frothy negligèe, waving one white arm languidly in a come hither fashion, half-eaten box of chocolates lying discarded on the floor. That sort of mistress probably wore high-heeled mules with puffs of pink swansdown on the front, and satin French knickers and stockings, and simply existed for sex. It had a certain appeal, she admitted to herself as she put the cafetière together. She couldn't see Patrick being attracted to it though; he was far too restless. No, the soothing geisha-like passivity would be more attractive to the tired businessman, popping into his nid d'amour, after a long day at the office, for a few hours of pampering and fluffing up of the male ego. Someone like Neil. She pushed him out of her mind.

Perhaps she was closer to the modem mistress, the businesswoman who managed her life, her lover, her husband, her children and her personal trainer with consummate ease and a Psion Palmtop. She could see herself successfully playing that role for about ten minutes. She smiled. I don't think I'm very good at bossing people around; I'm too worried they might say no, she thought. Perhaps I should be more decisive, more assertive. She pushed the cafetière plunger down hard, too hard. The cafetière broke and scalding coffee spurted out, splattering across her top and jeans.

'Shit!' She grabbed a tea towel and scrubbed at her front, leaving hot, dark coffee splodges. Her jeans were burning her legs. 'Why am I such a mess?' A vision of Justine's perpetually neat bob and self-contained expression passed across her mind. She took off her sweatshirt and saw that the coffee had gone right through to her white shirt. Bugger. Now what?

'Problems?' Patrick was leaning against the door, half-dressed.

'I've stupidly managed to get coffee all over me.'

'Bad luck.' He didn't sound very sympathetic and she felt put out.

'But I've got nothing else to wear.'

'Just how I like you,' Patrick leered at her, then relented. 'Grab one of my sweaters from upstairs.'

Isabel went back up to the bedroom and stripped off her steaming clothes. There were red marks on her legs where the coffee had scalded, but they weren't painful. She rummaged through Patrick's clothes, choosing the largest sweater she could find - one hundred percent pure cashmere, she noticed, and the thick, expensive kind. She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder, feeling the softness and inhaling his smell. He's selfish and he doesn't love me, she thought. He might even be seeing someone else. As a mistress I have no rights, no claims. I can't even ask. This relationship is about sex, and that's all there is. Falling in love is out of the question.

She came back down to the kitchen and bundled her coffee-stained clothes into the washing machine.

'Why don't you chuck some of my stuff in while you're at it?' Patrick said, slipping his arm about her waist and planting an affectionate kiss behind her ear. She twisted round to face him.

'Yeah, and I expect you think I could do a little bit of housework while I'm at it.'

Patrick ran a lazy hand down her spine. 'I was hoping you might...'

'You must be joking,' Isabel laughed. 'I'm famous for being the untidiest person in the world.'

'Really?' Patrick looked surprised. 'You seem very organised to me. You're brilliant at sorting my stuff out.'

Isabel thought about it. It was true that since she'd been working for him she'd put Patrick's papers into some sort of order, persuading him to use his filing cabinet and bookshelves, and devising a system that he could follow. There were no more papers strewn around the sitting room and the office looked positively professional.

'Perhaps it's different when it's someone else's mess. Easier to deal with than one's own.'

'I need you to sort me out.'

'No, you don't. I don't mind doing the office stuff, but your dirty washing is your own. Don't sulk.' She kissed the palm of his hand, thinking, is this really just sex? 'Wives get the dirty socks, mistresses don't. Even I know that's the deal.'

'I see... And what do you think mistresses should get? Apart from payslips, of course.'

'It's not me that wants a payslip, it's Neil. And his bloody accountant.'

'I hope you don't mind me saying this, but your husband seems a complete buffoon.'

'I do mind you saying it, and you still haven't given me a payslip. Actually, you haven't given me any pay.' 'How much do you want?'

What I've earned, of course.'

'Ah. Now that's an interesting issue.' He was very close to her. 'Are you charging me for services rendered, or am I charging you?'

How much do you think your services are worth?' she murmured.

'It's what they're worth to you.'

'Why don't we just say they're mutually beneficial.'

He kissed her. 'Shall we go and be mutually beneficial upstairs?'

'Not until I've got some money.' The washing machine clunked on and started to vibrate against her backside.

'You're a hard woman, Mrs Freeman.'

'You're a hard man, Mr Sherwin,' she said. 'In several senses of the word.'

Are you blackmailing me?'

'No, I'm going on strike.'

'Do you think you can?'

'Um.' She tried to ignore his hand on her. 'To be honest, I'm not sure.'

'I'd hate you to have to suppress yourself.' He reached into his back pocket, brought out his wallet and shook it out, coins spilling onto the floor, notes fluttering down. 'Every penny I possess I give to you. All I have.' He nibbled her ear.

She put her arms round his neck. 'Everything?'

'Of course. Will everything be enough for Madam?'

'Mmm, s'pose so. It'll do for now. For the moment,' she said, kissing him back.

'Then turn around, you gorgeous creature, and bend over.'

 

- ooo -

 

Afterwards she said, 'In some ways the money's not really important, but in other ways it is. Let's face it, I'm not your kept woman, I'm somebody else's kept woman. So in that way I don't need the money. But coming to you was, in a very small way, a chance to do something with my life, to have a little money of my own. Keep myself, rather than be kept. So it is important.' She sipped her tea.

'Money's the most important thing there is.' Patrick leant back on his chair and stared up at the ceiling.

'More than love?'

'Oh, yes. Love comes and goes, but the bills have to be paid.'

'I don't believe you're really that cynical.'

'Perhaps not. I don't know, Isabel, I'm as confused as the next man. I just know that if it's a choice between love or money, money will win every time.'

'That's not true.'

'Look around you. Look at all these empty marriages.'

'They didn't all marry for money.'

'But they stay because of it. Don't you?' he asked very softly.

Isabel paused, pushing back the sleeves of Patrick's sweater.

'If I say I stay for things like security and stability and company, you'll say that's just the same as money, won't you?' She clasped her hands in front of her, trying to disentangle her thoughts. 'I do love Neil. Perhaps not in the same way I once did, but... we've shared so much. That matters. And then there are the children.'

'The clinching argument.'

'At the end of the day, yes. Why not? Don't sneer; just because you're not interested, it doesn't mean that other people aren't. Anyway, it's all right for you. In ten years' time, if you decide to have children, you'll be able to pick up some girl and have children, no problem.'

'Perhaps.' He looked out of the window, his face sad.

'I suppose that what it comes down to in the end is. I'd never leave my children, they want to be with both me and Neil, and so we stay together.'

'So romantic.' He looked back at her, as if in contempt.

'What about us? Is that any more romantic? Sex without love? Without a future?' She spoke more bitterly than she had meant and the atmosphere became as brittle as icicles. There was a slight pause, then Patrick got up.

'I'm going to do some work. As for your husband's payslip, as far as I'm concerned you're self-employed and therefore you can sort out your own tax and National Insurance. Just invoice me for the hours you've done.' He touched her shoulder lightly and said more kindly, 'I'll show you how to lay it out later.' He hesitated. 'Isabel, don't forget what I said. No falling in love.'

After he'd left the kitchen Isabel pressed her hands to her face. I don't love him, she told herself. I don't. I can't. I mustn't. But without love all it becomes is sex. Perhaps I should be like Patrick and say that sex is enough. No strings, no ties, no commitment. Isn't that what modern women are supposed to be able to do, say 'I like sex' and not be ashamed?

The money was still scattered over the floor and she bent down to pick it up, retrieving coins where they had rolled under the washing machine - £85.76, and sixty-five euros. She wasn't sure how much they were worth; about forty pounds she thought. Even if she said she spent half the day in bed with Patrick it wasn't enough to cover all the hours she had worked. I have earned this money, she thought. I have worked for it. It should be mine to keep. So why do I feel like a prostitute if I take it? She stacked the money into two piles on the table, unwilling to put either in her bag. Perhaps she should work out what she was owed, prepare the invoice he mentioned and then ask him directly. She'd seen enough invoices now to copy the format; she didn't need Patrick to help her.

There was a knock at the door and she got up, her bones aching as if she had flu. Why did life have to be so complicated? Patrick's sweater came halfway down her thighs, making her decent enough not to give anyone a thrill. More knocking.

'Coming,' she called and opened the door, expecting to see a deliveryman with a box of computer peripherals to be signed for. What she saw was Mary Wright, her eyebrows shooting upwards as she registered Isabel in Patrick's sweater.

'Isabel, good morning.'

Isabel nodded, speechless. Of all the people she expected to see, Mary was as likely as Nelson Mandela. What was she doing there?

'May I come in?'

'Of course.' Isabel opened the door wider and stepped back to allow Mary through. Mary came into the house and wrinkled her nose.

'Do I smell coffee?'

Yes, in the kitchen...' Mary started to move through into the kitchen and Isabel trotted after her, very conscious of her bare legs and naked feet padding on the cold floor. 'But you'll have to have tea. I smashed the cafetière and got coffee everywhere, which is why...' Her voice trailed away as Mary didn't seem to be listening.

'What did you make of the meeting last night?'

'Um. Very interesting.' Isabel tried to think of something to say. 'The Bonfire Party sounds fun.'

'Yes, people seem to enjoy it.' Mary ran her fingers along the top of the work surface. 'Anyway, I just thought I'd pop in to make sure everything was fine.'

Isabel stared at her. How did Mary know Isabel worked here? Through Justine? But why? Why was she there? What business was it of hers to check if everything was fine? And what did she mean by that anyway?

Mary gave Isabel a quick up-and-down, sniffed, then carried on. 'I haven't seen Patrick for ages. You know what men are like; they're useless about staying in touch. Unless they're gay, of course.' The phrase hung in the air. Isabel wasn't sure what to say. Any comment on Patrick's sexual preferences was beyond her, especially when some evidence was drying on her legs. She could feel herself blushing.

'I assume Patrick is here.'

'You want to see him?' Isabel felt even more stupid. Of course, there was no reason for Mary to want to see Isabel. But then, why did Mary want to see Patrick? Was she a client?

'Oh, look, my clothes have finished washing.' She hoicked them out of the machine, and shook them out. 'I'll just hang them up, and get Patrick for you. Help yourself to tea.' She pulled the airer out of the cupboard and escaped to the living room, calling to Patrick up the stairs.

He stuck his head over the landing. 'Who is it?'

'Mary Wright.'

'Mary? Good.' He clattered down the stairs.

What's she doing here?' Isabel hissed at him as he passed by, but he didn't seem to register the question before going through into the kitchen.

'Good to see you,' she could hear him say as she draped her damp clothes over the airer in front of the fire. 'And how's Richard? And the children?'

Her ears strained to catch Mary's response, but she couldn't distinguish the words. When she felt she couldn't arrange her clothes any longer she hesitated, then decided to go upstairs to the office like the good employee that she was. Back in the office she studied her list of things to be done, but none of them appealed. She wanted a soothing job, like untangling paperclips. A burst of laughter from downstairs. What could Patrick and Mary be talking about? Surely Mary and he... No, he couldn't. Not with Mary. Surely not. Another burst of laughter. She dithered between working and blatantly hanging over the banisters to eavesdrop. The decision was made for her by the phone ringing.

She zipped downstairs and hesitated in the kitchen doorway.

'Sorry to disturb you, but it's Andrew on the phone again. He says it's important.'

Mary was leaning against the washing machine, just as Isabel had been not so long ago. The thought that Mary might have turned up a little earlier and caught them made Isabel's stomach do an internal somersault.

'I'll have to take this call,' he said to Mary. 'Can you hang on for five minutes? Isabel will look after you.'

He left the room. Mary looked at Isabel in the same way that her formidable headmistress had done at school. It had the same effect on her heart, the sinking sensation of being scuppered by an iceberg.

Isabel tried for a beaming, welcoming, 'I'm not bothered' smile, but had a horrible feeling her lips had formed a sort of 'I'm as guilty as sin and please don't tell me off' simper.

'More tea?'

'No, thanks.' Mary heaved herself away from the washing machine. 'Patrick told me he'd got someone in to work for him. He didn't say it was you, however.'

'He's very discreet,' Isabel said, then thought it was the worst thing she could have said as Mary's eyebrows shot up again. 'I mean, he never talks about people. Only work,' she added, inwardly wincing, trying to sound more businesslike.

'I see.' Mary hesitated, then lowered her voice. 'I hope you know what you're doing.'

'I don't know what you mean,' Isabel said, heart pounding.

'I don't know you very well, but I know you have a husband and children.' Mary carried on, inexorable. 'I am very fond of Patrick but he is, how shall I put it? Unreliable.'

Isabel felt her face flush scarlet. 'Patrick is my employer,' she said, gripping the edge of the table. 'That's all there is to it.'

'I dare say,' Mary said, examining her gardener's nails, cracked and short with ingrained dirt. 'When I think what poor Caro had to put up with. Words fail me.' She lied, because words continued to roll out. 'I feel partly responsible. It was my idea that they move to Milbridge in the first place. Then there was all the trouble with Justine.'

'Justine?'

'Didn't you know? Caro found them in bed together - in her bed, what's more. It was the last straw and she chucked Patrick out.'

'I didn't know about... Not for sure.' Isabel held her hand to her mouth, seeing Patrick and Justine together, her blonde hair swinging against his darkness.

'Not that Justine stayed with Patrick for long - if I were gossiping I'd say she discovered that the money was Caro's and not Patrick's. How she kept it from her husband I don't know, but she managed to get a good settlement from him when they finally divorced. Justine's a clever girl, but greedy. Always one eye on the chequebook, though I think now she'd settle for a good provider,' Mary added, her tone that of the dispassionate observer.

'And Patrick?' Isabel asked, despite herself.

'You're not the first and you won't be the last.' Mary's expression was not unkind. 'I'd hate to see another marriage break up because of him.'

'I work for Patrick, and that's all,' Isabel said, trying to keep calm and obliterate the image of Patrick and Justine together from her mind. 'There is no question of anybody's marriage breaking up. He means nothing to me.' She could feel her lower lip quiver and her eyes fill with water. 'Nothing,' she repeated.

Mary looked at her, a steady, appraising sort of look. 'I really don't want to know what is or isn't going on. You're new to the area and I'm warning you to be careful.'

Isabel felt her spirit shrivel up. Lying to Neil was one thing, lying to Mary another. She tried desperately to think of something that could deflect Mary's clear-sighted gaze. 'I don't know what business it is of yours, anyway. What right have you got to come here and say these things?'

'There's no need to get upset. Patrick's reputation is common knowledge. You should know what you're getting into.'

'Know? I don't want to know all this - this gossip. That's all it is. Gossip, and jumping to conclusions. Just because I spilt coffee over myself and had to wash my clothes, you've decided I'm having an affair with Patrick.'

The word 'affair' reverberated around the room.

Mary paused. She stared at Isabel's feet and then let her gaze travel up her bare legs and over Patrick's sweater until she was looking Isabel straight in the eye. 'I am only informing you. Patrick has made a lot of women very unhappy. It's up to you if you're one of them.'

'You hardly know me. Why should you care?'

'I don't, particularly. But I do care for Patrick.'

Isabel clutched at this, anything to deflect Mary's attention from her. 'You're jealous, aren't you?'

Mary snorted. 'Hardly.'

'You must be, or why else would you be saying this?'

'Hasn't he told you?' To Isabel's surprise, Mary suddenly laughed. 'Well, I can see it might look a bit peculiar to you, as you don't know. Not that there's any reason why you should know, of course.'

'Know what?'

Mary smiled, 'Why, that Patrick's my brother.'