Isabel let herself into Patrick's house on the Tuesday after the dinner party. From habit she bent down to pick up the post. As she straightened up she realised that Patrick was dressed and sitting on the sofa.
'Good morning,' she said. Usually she would have taken off her coat and slung it over the banisters, but today she stood there, fingering the middle button. 'You're up early.'
He stood up. 'I was waiting for you,' he said.
'We need to talk,' she said. She hesitated, then started to take her coat off, turning her back on him. He came and stood behind her.
'Isabel.' He pressed his mouth to her neck, ran his hand down her shirt. Once she would have swooned back against him, but today she felt cold, with no more interest than if he was tuning a dodgy radio. 'I've been waiting for you all weekend.'
'We need to talk,' she said again, moving away from him. 'About Victoria.'
'She's irrelevant,' he said, following her.
She spun round. 'And what about me?' All the emotion that she'd been feeling flooded her mind, anger melting the cold indifference she had been maintaining. She hit him, and then again, her fists pounding into his chest. 'Am I irrelevant too?'
He grabbed her wrists and kissed her though she struggled against him, his mouth on hers, and suddenly she was kissing him back, and they were snatching at each other's clothes, desperate for each other, and all she could think of was how much she wanted him, and then he was inside her and her back was pounding against the cold flagstone floor and it was everything she wanted, he was everything she wanted.
Afterwards she lay on the floor, her back aching, energy leaching out of her. She felt too feeble to move. She turned her head towards Patrick lying beside her.
'What do I mean to you?' she whispered.
He kissed her neck, her hair. His voice was muffled but she heard him clearly. 'Everything,' he said. 'You mean everything.'
'And Victoria?'
Patrick sat up. 'What about her?' he said, and started to get dressed.
'You're sleeping with her.'
'So what? You sleep with your husband, don't you? Every bloody night, and I don't complain.'
'We haven't for ages,' Isabel said, starting to get dressed herself in her cold and crumpled clothes.
'Oh, sure,' Patrick said, shrugging his shirt on and stalking off to the kitchen.
'No, really,' Isabel said, wriggling into her skirt. She couldn't remember the last time, wondering if the night when she had shouted at Neil was really the last time he had approached her. She'd become so absorbed in her affair with Patrick that she'd lost track of time. Her clothes felt horribly uncomfortable, twisted and damp, as she followed Patrick to the kitchen.
Patrick seemed on a mission to slam all the kitchen cupboard doors while taking out the new cafetière and a single mug.
'I don't know why you're so cross,' Isabel said. 'If anything, it's me who should be cross. Doing it under my nose like that.'
'I asked you first: you wouldn't, she would.' Crash. Any minute the new cafetière would be following its predecessor into the dustbin. 'I think the word is prick tease.'
Isabel was shocked by his crudeness. 'That's a horrible thing to say.'
'It's true. Isn't it?'
'I didn't know you could be so cruel.'
'Perhaps we don't know each other very well.' He fiddled with the signet ring on his little finger, then sighed. When he spoke his voice was quieter, more measured. 'You were waving your husband under my nose. How do you think I felt?'
'I don't know. I don't know how you feel.'
He stared out of the window, his mood unfathomable. Isabel felt confused, trying to understand why he was so angry. Her lower back was sore.
'You've always known I was married,' she tried, 'so why does it make a difference now?'
He hunched his shoulders and turned away from her.
'If you won't talk to me, how can I understand?' she cried. She wanted to go to him, to touch him, turn him round to face her. But his back was rigid.
'I'm going to start working upstairs. There's a lot to do,' she said, although she knew that the only job with any urgency was locking herself in the bathroom and crying. Just as she was through the kitchen door he called her name.
'Yes?' she said from inside the living room, not wanting to appear at his beck and call by going back, but longing for him to come to her, for this not to be the beginning of the end.
'Do you love me?'
Isabel stared at the ceiling to try to keep the brimming tears from overflowing. How can he even ask me this? she wondered. She didn't know how she felt. 'No falling in love. That's what you said. No strings, no ties, no responsibilities, no nothing.' She kept her voice level as if it didn't matter, and it flashed into her mind that she'd become good at deceit.
'So I did.'
Isabel waited for him to say more, or to come out from the kitchen, but there was nothing but silence. It was ridiculous for them to be in separate rooms but she didn't move and neither did he. After a while she collected the post from where she'd dumped it on the stairs and went up to the office, her feet heavy on the treads and her whole body aching as if she were climbing Mount Everest without oxygen. This is it, she thought. This is the beginning of the end.
Patrick was irritable for the rest of the day, shouting at her for losing some vital telephone number, shouting again when she told him she wouldn't be in next week because of half term. Later in the afternoon, she looked up from the computer to discover him watching her, but she couldn't read his expression and he left the room before she could ask him what he wanted.
The next day Patrick was out most of the time with a client. At least, that was what he said, although she wasn't sure if it was true. He kissed her gently before leaving, but a kiss could mean anything, she thought. Or nothing. She started to think about money. She hated the idea of discussing it with Patrick, especially in his present mood, but she couldn't work for nothing. She began to flick through her diary to check the dates she'd worked and caught sight of Frances's address and phone number in Thailand.
Her hands shaking, she dialled the number. They're seven hours ahead, she thought, she's bound to be in, perhaps making tea for the children.
'It's me, Isabel' she said, when the phone was answered. 'I can't talk long, I'm using the office phone.'
'Naughty girl,' Frances said, her familiar voice distorted by heavy crackling. 'But lovely to hear you. Is everything okay?'
'Yes, fine.' Isabel hesitated. How to start? 'I'm thinking about giving up my job.'
'Is that why you're calling? I thought you were loving working, you lucky thing. God, it's so boring out here at the moment, I wish I were you. And the humidity! Is it raining in England?'
'I'm not sure...' The hissing noise on the phone sounded as if Frances was in the middle a tropical storm.
'I've been nagging David for us to go back home, but no luck so far.'
'I thought you were having a good time,' Isabel said, confused at the direction the conversation was going. Frances started to talk about living in Thailand, chattering as if she hadn't spoken to anyone all day, which Isabel knew from her own experience might be true. The loneliness of the ex-pat wife. But she couldn't concentrate on what Frances was saying.
'I've had an affair but it's breaking up,' Isabel blurted out across the stream of talk.
'Breaking up? Am I? The line's not good this end either.' Above the background hiss Isabel could hear other voices. 'Look, love, I've got to go and feed my ravening hordes. Send me an email and tell me all about it. Love to Neil and the children. Bye!'
Isabel put the phone down, feeling lonelier than she'd ever felt before.
- ooo -
On Thursday morning first thing, before she had time to lose heart, she laid the envelope containing her invoice in front of Patrick, who was working at the kitchen table.
He looked up at her, and reached out an arm to pull her towards him. 'What's this?' he said, with a smile in his voice as if it might be an invitation to a party or some other pleasant function, as he ripped open the envelope and pulled out the invoice. His expression changed. 'What's this?' he repeated, in quite a different tone.
'An invoice for the work I've done,' she said, faltering.
He took his arm away from her waist.
'You said that's what I was to do,' she added, standing on one leg in embarrassment. She'd only invoiced him for half the hours she had been at the office, on the grounds that they might have been making love for the other half. It didn't come to very much, but it was something.
Someone rapped at the door. 'I'll get it,' she said, glad for an excuse to escape.
A deliveryman stood outside, almost hidden behind an enormous bouquet of flowers.
'There you go, love,' he said, pushing the flowers into Isabel's hands.
'No, that can't be right. You must have the wrong address,' Isabel said, pushing the flowers back.
'Freeman? Number forty-five, Downton Road?'
'Yes, but are you sure?' Isabel took the flowers from him.
'Someone loves you, sweetheart. Don't knock it.' He winked at her before going down the path.
There must have been at least a hundred flowers in the bouquet. Isabel had to cradle it, almost overwhelmed by the scent from the lilies and freesias - freesias, at the end of October. Isabel looked for the card with trembling fingers.
'Mi perdone, carissima,' it read.
Patrick. She looked up from the flowers. He was leaning against the kitchen door, watching her.
'They're amazing. Thank you.'
'The timing was interesting.' His voice was cold, his face withdrawn. He had the invoice in his hand.
'Patrick, I can't work for nothing.' She hugged the preposterous flowers to her. 'We agreed this is what we'd do.'
'I'll write you a cheque,' he said, turned abruptly and went back into the kitchen. She hesitated, then followed him in.
'There you are.' He held out a cheque to her. She disengaged a hand from the flowers and took the cheque.
'Thank you.'
He sat down at the table and started to read as if she wasn't there.
Isabel put the flowers in the sink.
'Patrick,' She touched his shoulder. 'What does the card mean?'
'Nothing.' He shook her hand away. 'Absolutely nothing.'
- ooo -
On Friday morning Isabel consulted the 'to do' list she'd made late on Thursday evening. Drat, she'd forgotten to remind Neil about coming home early. She thought about phoning him at work, but decided against it. He'd probably have remembered and there was something off- putting about phoning the office on such a wifely task. Her at home. The little woman. She pulled a face. She was sure he would remember.
She'd meant to start cleaning the house in anticipation of her parents-in-law's visit during the week but each evening she'd felt dragged down with worry about the situation with Patrick. For the first time in weeks she'd eaten her way through a packet of biscuits, not tasting them but finding comfort in the rhythmic munching, the sweetness.
Cleaning the house in anticipation of the in-laws worked off some of her spare energy. Isabel scrubbed at floors, dusted the tops of the curtains and wiped dirty fingermarks off the woodwork. Pictures that had been lying against walls cocooned in bubble wrap were hung on the walls, Isabel whacking in picture hooks with an oversized hammer that made a satisfying thud. The company paid for transporting a container and a half, so their belongings were edited with each move, but she'd filled this permanent home quickly: toys waiting to be mended and spare legs from the new kitchen units saved 'just in case'. She opened a new roll of bin bags.
At midday she thought wistfully of swimming, of lying suspended in cool water, but there was too much to be done. Windows were washed, flowers arranged in vases of aspirin-laden water, toys put in graded ranks - big at the back, ranging down to the front row of tinies. A bit like war, she thought. The most vulnerable go over the top first while the big guns lie in safety deciding which way to jump.
She paid particular care to the guest bedroom, putting out new geranium-scented soap. There were so many flowers in Patrick's bouquet that each room could have a bunch. She'd have to tell Neil that she'd bought them in honour of his parents' visit, although he was unlikely to notice. More likely his mother would comment on the unnecessary extravagance. Still, the alternative was to put them in the bin. She popped some freesias, alstroemerias and a few fern fronds into a small milk jug. She hoped her mother-in-law wouldn't notice the chip. Fat chance. As she worked she listened to Radio Four, turned up loud to drown out the continuous murmur of dissent in her head. Miserable old cow. Coming to interfere. Not fair. Not fair.
Her lower back was still sore from Tuesday, the desperate coupling on the sitting-room floor. At the beginning of the affair she'd been excited by the roughness; common sense and rationality overcome by a more urgent force. Lust, she supposed. She felt as if she'd been sleepwalking and Patrick had woken her up. And there was no doubt that once you started thinking about sex, you became more interested. It was like buying a new car; suddenly the same model seemed to be everywhere, cruising down the street, popping up in advertisements.
But at the dinner party everything had changed, become complicated and dark. Poor Victoria. She'd looked so happy, her face lit up. Isabel wondered if that was how she'd looked after the first time with Patrick, and was amazed yet again that Neil hadn't noticed. She felt dishonest, sordid even. Oh, Patrick. Was he thinking of her, as she was of him? Mi perdone meant forgive me. She couldn't work out what he meant. Forgiveness for what he had done, or what he was going to do? He had been difficult on Thursday, irritable and cold, hardly speaking to her all day.
She plumped up the pillows on the guest bed, shaking them out and thumping them so they looked temptingly soft. The sheets were her best ones, properly ironed and put away with lavender bags. The dusty scent irritated her nose and she sneezed. One for sorrow. It seemed an easy prophesy. Why were mothers-in-law quite so irritating? Everyone she knew was driven mad by their mother-in-law. Except for the smug few who cooed over how wonderful theirs was, winners in the ma-in-law stakes. What was the problem? She had older women friends, got on well with the swimming-pool crowd, so it wasn't the generation gap. Perhaps it was the forced intimacy with strangers, the feeling that you had to get on. Or perhaps it was the power issue, suppressed for the sake of family harmony; like dogs, sniffing, circling, growling, but unwilling to fight outright.
Why do I feel the need to compete with her? she thought. The tidying, the cleaning, the Stepford wife stuff? It's so dishonest. Suddenly she laughed. Imagine what she'd say if I announced that I was being unfaithful? 'Whore, slut, always knew my Neil was too good for the likes of her.' She smoothed the bedspread with slow strokes, then straightened up, wincing as the pain in her back caught. And she'd probably be right. Neil doesn't deserve someone like me. Isabel looked about her. The room was ready, immaculate as a magazine set, a gleaming shrine to the benefits of Mr Sheen and dusters. There was no more she could do.
- ooo -
Neil stuck his head around the kitchen door just after Isabel brought the children back from school. She was trying to feed them without making any mess in the kitchen, an enterprise that was successfully tightening all her nerve endings.
'Hello, everybody.'
'Daddy!' Katie leapt up, knocking over her milk, and attached herself to Neil, clinging like a gibbon. Isabel mopped up silently, lips compressed into a straight line. Neil unpeeled Katie.
'No need to break my neck, poppet. Hi there, Michael.' He kissed the top of Michael's head, which Michael ducked with an embarrassed shrug of his shoulders. Isabel pushed a loose strand of hair out of her face with the back of her hand, and offered her cheek to be kissed.
'Any chance of some tea?' he said. 'I'm knackered.' She made him a cup while he listened patiently to Katie explaining about some dreadful act of injustice at school. She desperately wanted him to look after the children so she could have a bath and wash her hair in preparation for the arrival of his parents. Her skin felt covered by a thin film of dirt that she longed to soak away. She put the mug of tea down in front of him.
'Look, would you mind if I had a five-minute lie down before I help?' he said.
'Is everything all right?'
'I'm fine, just a bit tired that's all.'
What's the point of coming back early if all you do is go to bed? she wanted to scream at him. And what about me? Don't I get to be tired too? But she suppressed her irritation. When all was said and done, her tiredness came from having an affair that was disintegrating whereas poor Neil was having to spend three hours a day commuting as well as often having to stay late at the office.
'It's fine,' she said, gently touching his shoulder. 'I've got everything ready. Go and relax.' He looked relieved.
'If you really don't mind...'
'Go on, before I make you wash the kitchen floor.'
He grimaced, kissed her cheek then went, taking his tea with him. Isabel could hear his feet treading heavily up the stairs to their bedroom. So much for helping. Never mind. Just so long as the in-laws didn't come early.
Whatever time they arrived it would have been too soon. But Isabel hadn't reckoned on their appearance before seven. At five thirty-five she registered the sound of a car engine outside, but ignored it, assuming it must be the neighbours. The front doorbell didn't ring, after all. She carried on mopping the kitchen floor, squeezing the grey water out with energy. It's a bad idea for me to do housework, she decided. It just makes me think mean thoughts. A puncture, exhaust dropped off, tragic accident on the motorway? The nice bit of her brain stopped there, deterred from continuing by thinking about how Neil would be upset. The wicked bit snuck in an image of her dressed in black, being wonderfully supportive, holding Neil's hand at the funeral. She slapped the mop back onto the terracotta tiles. She was just wondering if the police would telephone or call round in a car with flashing lights when a loud rap startled her. She clutched the mop in surprise as the very alive face of her mother-in-law loomed through the kitchen window.
'Cooee,' Moira said, her Exocet eyes pinpointing immediately the bit Isabel had missed. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump.'
Liar, thought Isabel, whose heart was pounding as if she had seen Frankenstein's monster. Still, two can play at that game. She put her perfect daughter-in-law face on.
'Moira. How wonderful to see you. And so early, too. The traffic must have been good.' She opened the kitchen door. 'Where's Ian?'
'Getting the luggage out of the car.' Moira ran one pearlised pink fingertip over the window sill, and sighed happily at the sight of dust. 'I thought we might be a wee bit early, so I came round the back to check you were here first.'
Isabel tried casually to tidy the mop and bucket away, a difficult task as it was full of soapy water. 'I didn't hear the front doorbell.'
'Och, I didn't want to bother you with that. Shouldn't you empty the water out before putting that away?'
'I will later.' Only two minutes and Isabel could feel her cheeks aching with the effort of keeping a welcoming expression on her face. 'I'll go and help Ian with your things.'
Neil's father was ponderously taking luggage out of the boot of the car, hampered by his walking stick, and the dog, a West Highland terrier, yapping at his heels. Isabel rushed to help take out a matching pair of suitcases, a travel rug and a carrier bag that clinked as she put it down. Please, Isabel prayed as she embraced Ian, not more whisky. Isabel took the two suitcases and went into the hall followed by the dog sniffing the corners suspiciously.
'Perhaps Buster can stay in the kitchen?' she asked, worried, as the dog seemed about to lift his leg against her Korean spice chest.
Moira shooed Buster into the kitchen and shut the door.
'I know you don't like dogs, Isabel,' she said.
How to say, I do like dogs, just not yours? Isabel decided it was best to say nothing and led the way upstairs to the guest bedroom, Ian hauling himself up as if the stairs were a rope ladder.
'I expect you'd like to wash and relax for a little,' she said hopefully. 'Come down and have a drink when you're ready.' She escaped without waiting for their reply. She carried on down the landing and gently opened the door to her bedroom.
'Neil? Your parents have arrived.'
He was lying on the bed fully clothed as if he had just decided to rest for a second before being overcome by sleep. His face had sagged with the weight of sleep into a younger, more relaxed Neil, closer to the man she remembered under wide African skies. Isabel carefully undid his laces and eased his shoes off, lifted his lower legs so they were properly on the bed, then covered him with the bedspread, and drew the curtains. He was snoring slightly when she left the room. Isabel ran downstairs to the sitting room where the children were watching television, the toys Isabel had so carefully tidied earlier spread out all over the carpet.
'Quick, quick, pick everything up,' she hissed. 'Granny and Grandpa are here.'
'Now?' Michael said, not looking up.
'Yes, now. We've only got a few minutes before they'll be down. Thank you, darlings, that's brilliant,' she added to encourage them as the children, faces turned towards the television, started to collect their toys up in slow motion. She nipped into the downstairs cloakroom and quickly brushed her hair. She wanted to wash her face but heard the sound of heavy feet on the stairs so contented herself with moistening a bit of loo paper and wiping the dust streaks off before going into the sitting room.
'What can I get you to drink?' She smiled at them, using her best hostess smile, and surreptitiously tried to push one of Katie's plastic ponies out of sight behind the sofa with her foot. The children had half cleared up and then scarpered.
'We've brought you a little gift,' rumbled her father- in-law, holding out the carrier bag.
'Whisky! How super.' I'll be saying jolly hockeysticks in a minute, Isabel thought in desperation. 'Is that what you'd like?'
'Well, now, that would be an idea,' he said, as if he didn't have a whisky and soda at six o'clock every evening without fail. Isabel poured him a drink from the bottle she'd opened the last visit but three. The intervening bottles she'd given away. She realised that Ian thought it was a great treat for them to have whisky, as so often they were living in countries where alcohol was banned, even though they'd explained that the authorities usually turned a blind eye to drinking within the ex-pat community. She'd given up wondering if they would ever notice that neither she nor Neil drank whisky.
'Moira?' She noticed Neil's mother scan the drinks tray. I mustn't be paranoid, she told herself. She couldn't possibly be deliberately choosing something that was not there. She was.
'A gin and tonic, please. If it's no bother.'
'None at all.' Isabel answered just as sweetly. 'I put the gin and tonic water in the fridge to keep them cool.' One up to me, she thought, as she went to fetch them, inadvertently letting Buster out as she did so.
'When does Neil get in?' Moira's expression was as sour as the lemon in her gin as she fondled Buster's ears.
'He's here already, but went upstairs to lie down.'
Is he ill?' Moira looked concerned.
'No, just a bit tired I think.'
'The poor boy. And to think I'm sitting here drinking.' She glared at Isabel as if it were her fault and stood up.
'He's sleeping.' Isabel stood up too.
'I'll just take a wee look.'
'I really think it would be better if -' Isabel started, but Moira had stalked out of the room, leaving her to talk to the back of her retreating twinset. It struck Isabel that, from behind, her mother-in-law's silhouette was just like the symbol of a woman on loo doors - tiny upper body with broad, spreading skirt and tapering legs. Isabel shrugged apologetically at Ian, trying to think of a conversational starter while Buster sniffed round her ankles as if choosing the best place to bite.
'The traffic wasn't bad on the way here then? You made good time.'
It wasn't much, but Ian was off, front runner in the traffic relay stakes, describing the route they had chosen, others that had been considered and discarded, and the bad driving encountered on the road. The rot had set in during the Sixties, apparently, which opened up whole new conversational avenues: homosexuals, hippies, asylum seekers, all of whom deserved to be shot.
As he sat his jacket fell open, revealing braces pulling his trousers up towards his armpits, like an old man. But he is an old man, Isabel reminded herself. Old and set in his ways. His voice resonated around the room, bouncing off the ceiling as if he was summing up in a council meeting or boardroom, both arenas in which he'd had considerable experience. His complete confidence that she would listen attentively mesmerised her into sitting still. But, but, but, she wanted to say. That's just not true. But then, what was the point? He was hardly going to change his opinions because they so dismayed her, a mere woman. Just be thankful that the bile had bypassed Neil, who was miraculously a normal human being.
Fortunately, before she'd bitten her tongue off with the pressure of holding it between her teeth, the children created a diversion by coming in. Ian embraced them stiffly, tweed suit rough and unyielding. Isabel often thought that he would have been good with children, if only he knew where to start. But distance was ingrained from an Edwardian-style childhood, confirmed with his own children, and then the accident that had made him nearly bedridden for two years when Neil was in his early teens. Neil had ended up playing head of the household while his father recovered. Ian was left with a pronounced limp and a sudden ageing that moved him from his prime into old age.
Now Ian held a protective hand around his glass as Katie lolled against his armchair, her shrill voice explaining exactly how chocolate Labradors were bred while her grandfather pressed against the seatback in unconscious alarm. He found Michael easier, his passions for fishing and racing cars safer topics for masculine conversation than Katie's innocent twitterings on dog breeding. From the comfort of his chair he promised the boy grand fishing trips on lakes near his home. Isabel twitched. She knew from past experience that his promises were easily made, equally easily forgotten. It seemed dishonest, somehow, to make the child promises that would never be fulfilled. But then, who was she to accuse another of dishonesty? She felt her cheeks go red.
'I'll just go and start seeing about dinner,' she mumbled and escaped to the kitchen where she tripped over the forgotten mop and bucket. Dirty water splashed over the clean floor. She slopped at the grey tide ineffectually, sloshing water back into the bucket with angry jerks, her lower back creasing in pain as she bent over the mop. Tears pricked at her eyes. Damn. She stood for a second, clutching the mop, a latter-day Cinderella. But no ball in prospect, no Prince Charming, no Fairy Godmother. She started to work more methodically. Perhaps that was what Cinders found, that happily ever after just meant more of the same. Finished, she poured the water down the outside drain, watching it swirl away under a froth of bubbles.
Back in the kitchen she turned the oven on ready for their meal. Smoked salmon roulade, then pheasants in apple and cream sauce and Pommes Dauphinoises, followed by lemon tart. Too much cream, too much stodge for everyday, but just right for drowning bad feelings in calories and carbohydrates. And it was easier to cook well with lots of butter and cream: everything tasted good, if heavy on the cholesterol. Still, one meal wouldn't matter. They can sleep it off later, she assuaged her conscience.
She took the pheasants out of the fridge. At this time of year they were cheap, the area being rife with shooting estates. The last two weekends Michael had collected spent cartridge cases found on walks - green, yellow, red, the occasional black. Isabel kept finding them in pockets and behind cupboards. The birds looked unappetising, a mottled mixture of grey and purple. She draped them with flaccid strips of streaky bacon, drizzled them with oil, chucked a few onions into the roasting dish around the birds and shoved it in the oven, slamming the door shut with her foot.
Halfway through beating the salmon mousse for the roulade, Moira came in, shoes clacking like tongues.
'Is Neil up yet?'
'He's poorly.' Moira's mouth compressed.
'Really?' Isabel blinked. 'I thought he was just tired.'
'The boy's exhausted,' Moira said. She obviously felt it was all Isabel's fault. 'And going down with flu.'
'Poor Neil,' Isabel murmured, concentrating on spreading mousse over the roulade base. If you didn't get it even, it squidged out of the sides and bulged ominously. His mother sniffed loudly.
'I'm going to make him a hot toddy.'
'Oh. Help yourself. Just ask if you need anything.' She started to roll up the roulade, manoeuvring the greaseproof paper carefully and ignoring the sounds of slammed doors and wrenched drawers as her mother-in-law progressed round the kitchen cupboards.
'Do you not have a lemon squeezer, Isabel?'
'No, I usually use a fork. Easier to wash up.'
'I see.' More cupboard rummaging. 'What's this?' Moira pulled out an electric citrus press.
'I'd forgotten I had that. Sorry.' She must think I'm mad, Isabel thought. Still at least she'll be pleased to have a bit more evidence of my hopelessness. She finished the roulade. 'There.' She poked a bit of filling back in, then took a step back to admire the roulade, plump as a pillow. The decoration in the book had involved skinning cherry tomatoes, but she didn't feel that she had the time, now or ever, to fiddle with tomato skins and boiling water, however easily they were supposed to slip off. It'd have to do as it was. She glanced at her watch. She ought to peel some potatoes - they really should have gone in with the birds - but she needed to get the children ready for bed. Executive decision. It'd have to be mashed potato. She called the children to her and went upstairs.
Once Katie was in the bath, Isabel slipped in to see Neil, still lying on the bed with the curtains drawn. Isabel noticed that the hot toddy, now cool, was undrunk on the bedside cupboard. He was awake.
'Your mother thinks you're dying,'
'I am.' He flopped his head back and rolled his eyes.
'Mmm. I need a potato peeler.'
He started to get up. 'I'm sorry, I'll come and help.'
Isabel pushed him back down.
'Don't worry. If the worst comes to the worst we'll have instant mash and frozen peas. I only have to boil a kettle for that. Your ma thinks I'm hopeless as it is, so I might as well prove it.' She could see that he was tom between two loyalties, and felt guilty again. Why should he feel loyal to her, when she... She kissed him on the forehead, wincing at the pain in her back as she leant forward.
'Are you really ill?'
'No. She just likes to fuss. A bit under the weather, maybe.' He rubbed one eye and yawned. 'It's been a tiring week. Office politics.'
'I'm sorry.' She realised how little she knew about his work at the moment. 'Do you want to talk about it?'
'Do you want to listen? 'The question hung in the air between them.
'Of course,' she said finally. 'I always want to listen.'
'You seem rather preoccupied at the moment.'
'Sorry. I don't mean to be.'
'No.' He smiled and took her hand. 'Never mind.'
Isabel felt like crying. Her hand in his felt useless as if, although it touched, it could not connect. There seemed a huge chasm between them, completely impossible to cross. So many things to say, which could not be said.
'I've had a lover, but I think we're breaking up,' she wanted to tell him, and have him comfort her. 'I'm confused, I don't know what to do. It was exciting at first, but now it's something else. I'm so unhappy.' And Neil would cuddle her and say 'There, there, never mind, I still love you'.
But that wasn't going to happen, was it? However tolerant Neil might be, he was hardly likely to tolerate that. How appropriate that the punishment for adultery under sharia law was stoning. She could imagine the weight of the stones, heavy as lies, crushing the spirit. So many deceits, pressing down like stones, the only possible release being confession. But why should Neil share the burden of her guilt?
'I'm sorry,' she repeated, shaking her head.
- ooo -
The evening was a disaster. Michael and Katie, oblivious to their grandparents' belief that children should be seen and not heard, refused to stay in bed. Isabel would gently return them to their rooms, read them stories, see eyelids droop, lips relax, breathing become softer. Then she would tiptoe out, at which point they would catapult up, wide awake. Katie was the worst, impossible to reason with. Michael at least was bribable, negotiating successfully for five pounds in exchange for staying in bed. Katie kept on appearing at the door wanting a drink, a biscuit, a story. Wanting a good smack, according to Moira.
'When Neil and Heather were little -' she started, but Isabel had already ushered Katie out and escaped upstairs. Pointless to even think of getting into a conversation about the rights and wrongs of smacking. Bad wife, now bad mother.
On Saturday the children were up bright and early despite the lack of sleep. They ran out of energy in the afternoon, halfway round a nearby stately home that Moira wanted to visit. They all squeezed into Isabel's car because Ian, having secured prime position right outside the front door, didn't want to move the car in case he missed the space on the return. Isabel surveyed a half-empty street and kept her mouth shut yet again.
It was the last day the stately home was open that year and the grounds had a dead look, a few shrivelled rosebuds forlornly clinging onto leafless bushes. Katie clung to Isabel's arm, weighing her down like a floppy anchor, while Michael became disobedient and surly, scuffing his shoes on the gravel drive. They squabbled over who was going to walk Buster around the grounds and their crossness transmitted down the lead to the dog, who became crotchety, finally nipping Katie on the ankle.
Back home, ankle kissed better and suitably covered in plasters, Katie decided to eat her tea in front of the television. Michael tripped her up - an accident or on purpose? Who knew? Certainly not Isabel, who had to try to maintain both the peace and a smile on her face. Katie had dropped her plate so Buster eagerly devoured the food to Katie's accompanying wails.
'He's on a special diet,' Moira said, as if Isabel had spilt Katie's food deliberately. 'You have to take on the responsibility when you look after a dog, you know. Being with people keeps them like puppies, stops them growing up and fending for themselves. You have to look after them, or they won't manage.'
Isabel privately thought that Buster was managing pretty well. At least he had enjoyed his supper, because she was sure no one at the table had. It seemed pointless having Ian and Moira there: they moaned on the phone that they were longing to see their grandchildren but once there, they either ignored or criticised them and, by default, Isabel. She wondered what her own parents would have been like as grandparents.
Sunday morning, and yet another meal. Neil was downstairs cooking bacon and eggs, judging by the aroma permeating the whole house, when she heard his voice.
'Bel? Can you get the phone?'
She stopped putting Katie's clean clothes away.
'Sure,' she called back, making for the hall phone and picking it up. 'Hello?'
'Isabel,' said a familiar deep voice. Patrick. She pressed the receiver close to her ear as if any stray words might escape into the house.
'What do you want?' she muttered.
'To see you.'
'Why?'
'To say sorry. I behaved like a complete shit on Thursday.'
'Yes, you did,' she whispered, turning around to face the wall and wrapping the phone cable around her body.
'Can you get away?'
'Now?' He'd never asked to meet up outside office hours before. 'I've got the in-laws staying.'
He laughed. 'All the more reason to come.' His voice changed, became serious. 'Please, just for a few minutes. I've got something I want to talk to you about.'
'I don't know...' She twisted the cable round between her fingers.
'Meet me at the Italian cafe in half an hour.'
Neil's voice. 'Who is it?'
'No one,' she called back to him. She waited but Neil made no reply. 'Okay, in half an hour,' she whispered to Patrick, and put the phone down.
She went into the kitchen. Neil was in an apron, pushing bacon around a frying pan while Ian and Moira read the Sunday papers.
'Who was that?' Neil said.
'No one,' she said. 'Someone selling double-glazing.'
'It's outrageous, badgering people in their homes,' Moira said. 'And on a Sunday too. You ought to go exdirectory.'
'You're right,' Isabel said, sidling up to stand next to Neil. 'I've forgotten to get anything for pudding,' she said to him in an undertone. 'I'm just going to pop out to the supermarket, okay?'
'I thought you'd done apple crumble.'
'It went wrong,' she whispered, hoping he wouldn't think to look at the back of the fridge. 'And I haven't got enough apples to make another.'
'I'm sure they won't mind not having pudding.'
'No, no. You know how your father loves apple crumble,' she said, hating herself for the lies.
'What's the problem, Neil?' Moira said.
'Nothing,' he said, automatically covering for her. 'Isabel just needs to go out for a bit.' He tilted his head at her, telling her to go. Feeling horribly guilty Isabel ran upstairs, grabbed her make-up bag, and then escaped from the house. Once round the corner she stopped the car and did her face, obliterating the dark shadows under her eyes with foundation.
It had started to rain by the time she had parked, the sort of fine rain that deceives you into thinking it isn't wet, until you're drenched to the skin. Patrick was sitting with an espresso inside the Italian cafe opposite the bookshop.
He looked up and smiled at her.
'You came.'
'You said you wanted to talk to me about something.'
'Can I get you a coffee? No,' he stopped himself, 'you'll want a tea. You see, I do notice.' He went up to the counter and ordered. 'Would you like something to eat? A palmiere? Or a bombalone - that's an Italian sort of doughnut; they're very good.'
'No thanks,' Isabel shook her head, and a scatter of raindrops fell from her hair. She took off her mac and draped it over the back of her chair. She'd not been here before, although she knew it was one of Patrick's regular places. The only decent espresso in town, according to him. It was surprisingly busy for a rainy Sunday morning, the tables half-full, tinny music blaring out with the man operating the espresso machine singing along. Condensation was dribbling down the plate glass window at the front. The walls were covered with bright posters of crumbling ancient monuments against cobalt blue skies. Sicilia - Roma - Napoli. Patrick brought over her tea and she had a moment of dèjà vu. Of course, she remembered, Patrick bringing over the drinks that first time in the pub, when he'd kissed her. That had been the beginning of everything. It came to her then that this might be the end of everything, that this might be what he wanted to talk to her about.
What had he said? 'No regrets, no falling in love, no tears when we part.' Well, she could manage the last part. She sat up straight in her chair, shoulders back.
Patrick settled next to her. 'There's a pasticceria round the corner from Santa Maria del Popolo in Rome that makes marvellous bombalone. I used to go with my mother on Sunday mornings, the first year I was with her. I'd grown about a foot in two months and was always hungry so she filled me up with bombalone and suppli.'
'Suppli?'
'They're fried rice balls, with a lump of mozzarella inside. When you bite into them you find runny mozzarella. Delicious, but they must be fresh.'
'I can't stay long,' she said.
'No.' He reached out and took her hand, his thumb stroking hers.
They sat in silence, while the staff greeted other customers and took orders with a clatter of cutlery. The music moved on to grand opera, and the man sitting on the next table turned the pages of the weekend papers in a flurry of newsprint. He seemed vaguely familiar to Isabel, but he disappeared from her mind as she stared at Patrick's hand holding hers. She felt she could have stayed like that forever. His hand was warm, still tanned. Immediately she thought of the photograph at the office of Patrick and Victoria, set against cobalt blue skies.
She disengaged her hand. Patrick hardly seemed to notice, he was looking at the window. 'Patrick? I can't stay for long. What do you want to tell me?' she said.
'When I was a child, it always seemed to be raining, just like this,' he said, still looking at the window where the condensation had made rivulets down the inside.
'That's so sad,' she said, thinking of the little boy, abandoned by his mother. 'I think that's one of the saddest things I've ever heard.'
'I don't mean it to be. It's just a fact. It is wetter in the North West than in the South East.' He gave himself a little shake. 'Still, I didn't want to see you just to talk about the weather, although that does play its part.'
'What do you mean?'
'I hate the English weather. Here we are, end of October, it's pissing down, and there's probably another six months of it to come.' He sipped his coffee. 'I'm thinking of moving back to Italy.'
Isabel was so surprised she could have fallen off her chair. 'When?'
I don't know. Soon, possibly. It depends.'
'On Victoria?'
'Partly.' He swirled the black coffee round the cup, watching it as if hypnotised. When he spoke his voice was so soft Isabel had to lean forward to hear him. 'I was so angry with you at that stupid dinner party. I still am angry.'
'Why? What did I do?'
'Nothing. Everything. You were beautiful and desirable and married to someone else. It's funny, but I've never minded before, never felt bothered by sharing. That side of it is usually dead anyway within the first few years of marriage.' He looked at her directly. 'But you seemed to be very much a couple.'
'You know that... We've already talked about this,' she said.
Patrick drained his coffee cup then gestured with it to the man behind the counter. 'Senta,' he called, 'encore, per favore.' He turned back to Isabel and spoke briskly. 'I could stay here and marry Victoria. She's good-looking, rich and for some strange reason, keen to marry me. I think she thinks that she can change me.'
'And can she?'
'No.' It was a bald statement, spoken so flatly that Isabel knew it was true. He paused, cleared his throat. 'Someone else could though.'
He paused and she wondered if he meant her. But after the dinner party that seemed unlikely.
'Ah, grazie,' he said to the waiter who replaced his espresso cup. 'Anyway, she wants to move to the Midlands, which is where her family come from. I want to give up the business: it's not making any money and I hate dealing with clients, they're all so stupid, and the paperwork bores me to tears, as you know. Victoria will support me while I look around for something else to do. Rather a modem arrangement, don't you think?' His voice was harsh.
'And the alternative?' Isabel whispered.
'The alternative is to move to Rome. My mother's current husband wants to start exporting into the US; he could use an English-speaking partner. I could try it out, see if I liked it. If not, there'd be other opportunities.'
'It sounds a bit uncertain.'
'Life's more fun without a safety net.' He grinned at her, his eyes teasing her. He looked like Michael looked when he was planning some adventure. Then he shrugged. 'But if you insist on being practical I have a flat in Rome that I've had for years. It's let out at the moment, but I could move there, sell up here and live off the capital for a while. What do you think?'
'Me?'
'Yes, you. What do you think?'
'I think...' Isabel said slowly. 'I think I'd hate to be Victoria.'
'D'you think she'd be unhappy with me? Mmm. Possibly.'
'You really are a shit sometimes. Don't you think of anyone else's feelings?' She felt on the edge of tears. 'Look, I must go. I've got to get back.' She started to stand up but he held her arm.
'Don't go yet.'
'Why not?'
'I haven't said... I haven't told you... Sit down, just for a minute. Please.' Isabel perched on the edge of her seat, hardly able to breathe, wanting to go, wanting to stay, wanting him, hating him. Loving him.
'I said I was angry with you that night. I still am angry. Angry because... I don't find this sort of thing easy, Isabel. Talking about things. You know that.' He looked up at the travel bureau posters, all bright and sunny, while the rain fell outside. 'I've been very happy these last months with you. Happier than I can remember.' His hand shook as he picked up his coffee cup. 'I'm good at taking. Take what's offered, that's what I've done. Take and you don't get hurt.' He smiled at her, and she felt as if her heart had melted. 'It's asking that's hard.'
She clasped her hands in front of her to stop herself from touching him. 'What do you want to ask me?'
'I want you to leave Neil. I want you to leave Neil and come to Rome with me.' He sat very still. 'Will you? Will you come with me?'