The euphoria of Sunday morning had vanished by Monday morning when Neil left for work, leaving her alone in the house, depressed and without energy. She spent the day in a state of anxiety, fearing for Patrick's phonecall. In town, hair damp round the edges from swimming, she walked nervously along the pavement, expecting to see Patrick emerge and accost her. Sick with nerves she loitered in the bookshop, half looking at the books and half watching out of the shop window to see if he went into the Italian cafe opposite. Once she looked up from Organise Your Life Forever! and thought he was peering in at her, dark face in shadow, but it was only some stranger who didn't even look like him. She realised the man at the till was watching her, presumably because he thought she looked shifty. A potential shoplifter, probably. Flustered, she bought a book called Rekindling the Passion: Rediscovering the Joys of Marital Sex, blushing slightly as the man at the till gave her a sideways look, having read the title. She hid it in the depths of her shopping basket in case she bumped into Patrick and his eyes might see through the paper bag.
She swam every day that week. On the way down the pool her eyes were fixed on the entrance to the men's changing rooms, just in case, and on the way up she could feel his eyes burning her back through the water. But he was never there. It was never him who emerged and surveyed the pool as if he owned it, pulling at his swimming trunks as if too tight, like all the other men. Some of the swimmers had beautiful bodies, broad-shouldered, tapering to slim waists and long legs so firm that the calf muscles threw arcs of shadow towards the ankles. Their smooth movements through the water made her think of Patrick lying languorously on the bed, sated and contented as a cat. But cats have claws. She waited for Patrick to flex his.
On Tuesday, when she should have been at work, she started writing the Christmas Round Robin letter they sent every year to friends. It was a good way to stay in touch when your friends were, like you, working all over the world. But what to write?
Dear Everyone,
The year's been an interesting one. We moved back to the UK - Neil's now a big cheese at company HQ and I got a job and took a lover, but I've chucked them both in now.
Perhaps not, although it would make a change from the usual litany of minor successes. She struggled for a while with anodyne phrases before giving up. Instead, she read the book she had bought and tried rekindling the passion, or rather, tried kindling with Neil the passion she'd had with Patrick. But although they had made love satisfactorily at the weekend, Neil now seemed wary of her advances, almost embarrassed as if that Saturday afternoon had been an aberration. He did what he usually did and seemed thrown when she tried whispering suggestions or showing him what she liked. She felt ashamed, as if she'd been caught doing something wrong. Which in a way she had, because she had learnt how to ask, and what to ask for, from Patrick. After her second attempt she gave up and they each retreated to their own side of the bed.
She thought of Patrick a lot. Patrick laughing in the garden, Patrick pacing the room talking rapidly into the phone, Patrick getting angry and crashing through the house slamming doors then fucking her. Bedroom, kitchen, stairs; it didn't matter where. She knew the quality of the floors and furniture in that house better than a surveyor. He would be angry when he got the letter. She was sure of it. She kept thinking about him being angry, anger turning to passion.
At the pool she swam fast. Her arms and legs trembled as she got out. Twice she had to sit down in the middle of changing, limp and exhausted, legs flopping open, arms hanging uselessly by her side, waiting for her pulse to settle down and her chest to stop heaving. I'm just not used to all this swimming, she thought. I'll be more careful tomorrow. But the next day, although she might start carefully, after a few lengths her pace quickened. She ploughed up and down the lanes, counting the lengths in her head, repeating the number on each inward breath. She had always swum by time before, twenty minutes, half an hour. She'd heard sixty-four lengths equalled a mile so she aimed for that. She counted lengths obsessively. It shut out thoughts of Patrick.
By Friday she had got used to feeling sick when the phone rang, and fed up with standing beside it, agonising about whether to pick it up or let it carry on ringing merrily. It rang again and she realised she was bored with jangling nerves. She picked the phone up.
'Yup? Oh, Mary. Hi.' She hated herself for saying hi. She never said hi. Cringing inwardly, she listened to Mary reminding her about the Fireworks Party. Her name was down for selling sparklers. She had to admit, she had forgotten completely, although she realised the children had been talking about it only that morning. It was information that hadn't stuck inside her brain.
'I hear you're not working for Patrick any more.'
'No.' Her hand gripped the phone, as she thought back to Mary coming round to Patrick's house, when she'd told her that Patrick meant nothing to her. She realised it would sound odd if she didn't say anything else so she added, 'It just didn't work out.' She waved her free arm airily, even though Mary couldn't see her.
There was a slight pause. Mary was obviously running through all the things she could say, but decided against any of them.
'Well. See you tonight,' was all she said.
'Tonight, that's right.' Isabel nodded furiously.
'And, Isabel? Don't be late.'
- ooo -
'We mustn't be late,' Isabel said, bundling the children into layers of coats and sweaters and searching for matching gloves among the newly acquired supplies. It was strange how a person could so consistently lose the right-hand glove of any pair. She found a pair of gloves on a string which would fit Katie, and had to get her out of her coat, thread them through and then put Katie back in. It all took time.
'I don't need a hat,' Michael said, tossing his head away from a blue wool job, the plainest Isabel could find.
'It'll be freezing,' Isabel said, jamming it down. 'You're not used to the cold. C'mon, we've got to go.' She nipped back into the kitchen to collect her car keys and checked Katie's note was still there for Neil.
Dear Daddy
we have gone to the Fireworks Party.
here is a tikket for you if you get home in time.
Love Katie XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Isabel had dictated the words but the Xs were all Katie's. Such love, she thought. So many kisses to be squeezed into such a small space. She sighed, then squeaked at the sight of the kitchen clock and grabbed her shopping basket.
'Yikes. Quick, everybody in the car.'
The children, excited about being out in the dark, chattered in high-pitched voices as she drove through the streets. How many hot dogs, how many sparklers, how many sweets were they going to have? Millions, billions, trillions, squillions. They topped each other, squealing with delight. The children's excitement was infectious, and Isabel felt excited too, even though the weather was poor, threatening rain, clouds hiding the early stars. The moon was a thin sliver of diffused light hanging suspended on the horizon.
Isabel's wasn't the only car in the car park but she was one of the first. She presented herself at the classroom they used as HQ on Bonfire Night, slightly puffed from the hurry. The fluorescent lights seemed horribly bright after the darkness outside. She waved her basket.
'I'm here. Where are the sparklers?'
Justine detached herself from a group fussing over the heated trolleys.
'In this box. And the matches are here. Mary's got all the float money.'
'Everything going okay?'
Justine grimaced. 'Helen forgot to come in early and turn the trolleys and the urn on. So the mulled wine is lukewarm and we're selling tepid, not hot, dogs.' She lowered her voice. 'Food poisoning apparently threatens the entire school community. Mary was furious and shouted at Helen, then stormed off.'
How like Patrick, Isabel thought, her insides turning over just thinking of him.
'Stupid, really; it's not the Ritz,' Justine drawled.
'I seem to have missed the action,' Isabel said, matching Justine's cool tone. She looked across, and saw the high colour still on Helen's cheeks. 'Poor Helen.' She decided against commiserating with Helen now; it would only draw attention to her. She'd say something later. She crammed as many packets of sparklers and matches as she could into her basket and went outside. It was very dark, lit only by the light from the school buildings, and she wished she had remembered to bring a torch. That was the problem with rushing about, trying to be early: you ended up forgetting things. The children had joined Rufus, Millie and Rachel and several others and were running about, bodies criss-crossing the dark lawn. She called Katie and Michael to her.
'They'll be lighting the bonfire soon.'
'Where?' Katie looked around her, eyes big under her hat.
'Right up at the very top of the field, as far from the school as possible.' Isabel pointed into the darkness, although it was impossible to see anything. 'And then the fireworks will be in half an hour. Be careful.'
'Remember, remember the fifth of November,' Michael chanted.
'Here's some money for hot dogs and sweets. Rufus's mother is dishing up; she'll help you. Please watch out for Katie, Michael. I won't be far away if you need me, or if you're frightened.'
Michael snorted with derision.
'You may be fine, but Katie might get scared,' she said quickly. 'I'll be wandering around outside but if you miss me, go into the classroom where the food is.'
She gave them a packet of sparklers each and lit the first. They streaked off up the lawn towards the top field, which was hopefully called the athletics track in the summer term, sparks of light emitting from their sparklers so they resembled boisterous Tinkerbells.
Car headlights started to flash up the track to the car park, at first irregularly, then in a steady stream. Isabel sold sparklers to children and parents, having brief, meaningless conversations with most of them - 'Let's hope the weather holds' and 'When do the fireworks start?' Children wrote their names in sparkler fire, or swung great swooping arcs of flashing neon that burnt out the darkness, after-images lingering in the air before dissolving into the night. Parents talked loudly, fuelled by mulled wine, while their children ran wild. The bonfire blazed beyond the lawn in the top field, a beacon that people gradually drifted towards. The first firework went up, a large rocket that exploded into a chrysanthemum head of green petals with a thunderclap of sound, and everybody oohed.
Isabel sold the last of her sparklers to the crowd in the top field, and thought about going back to get fresh supplies. She looked down towards the school buildings. Through the big windows she could just make out the PTA women, shadowy figures chatting in the warmth. They would be clearing up and making ready for the next bout of frenzied feeding and drinking after the firework display was over. Standing alone in the cold night air, she felt torn between staying with the crowd and watching the rest of the firework display or continuing her duty by trudging all the way down to collect the rest of the sparklers. I want to be with my children, she thought, oohing and ahhing with everybody else. But the children were at the front of the crowd, unfussed by the noises that had made her duck involuntarily. They didn't need her and she couldn't reach them even if she wanted to. She looked at the empty basket. She knew what she ought to do.
Reluctantly she started to walk down, turning her back on the crowd and the fireworks. The darkness pressed in on her, making her stumble, and the money she had taken nearly fell out of the basket. She stopped and gathered it together, putting it into a plastic bag in her pocket. Her hands were cold, and she fumbled tying the top of the bag. When she reached the school buildings, she decided, she wouldn't go back up to join the crowd but would stay for a chat, perhaps have some mulled wine to warm herself up. There weren't many packets of sparklers left in the classroom to sell.
As she passed the cedar of Lebanon, part of the trunk detached itself and turned into a figure, making her jump.
'God, you gave me a shock,' she said, hand on heart.
'I didn't mean to make you jump.' A rocket exploded in the black sky above and flooded Patrick's face with lurid green light. 'Mary told me you'd be here. I've been watching you.' His voice was steady but in the brief flash of light she saw that his face was set in deep lines. Then the light faded and all was darkness again.
'What do you want?' She could hear the fear in her voice and clutched the empty basket in front of her.
'Why, you, of course. What else would I want here?' He took a step towards her and involuntarily she stepped back. There are hundreds of people all around me, she thought. There's no danger. But all she could see was darkness and the nearest people were fifty yards away behind closed windows.
'You can't have me.' She tried to make her voice cool. 'I'm not available.'
'Aren't you?' he said, his voice almost purring as he came closer. She stood her ground.
'No. Not anymore. I told you, in my letter.'
'Ah, yes, that charming document.' He was close now, his outline dark against the school. She'd always loved his voice. 'Do you know, I don't believe you.'
'What do you mean?' Run, her mind screamed at her. Run. But she stayed put.
'I think you are available.' He removed the basket from her hands and dropped it on the ground. His hands cupped her face, fingers rough against her skin. She tried to keep her body stiff and unyielding as he kissed her, keeping her lips clamped shut. She tried, but she could feel herself responding. He steered her back to the tree, ignoring her stumbling feet, and pushed her against the trunk. He leant against her, pinning her down with his weight, while one hand undid her coat and fumbled with her clothes, yanking her underwear down.
'No,' she said, twisting away from him. 'I don't want...'
'But you do. I can feel. You're dripping wet for me.'
'Oh God, no.' Involuntarily her back arched, body trained to respond to him. 'Please don't...' Her breathing was heavy and she turned her head, battling inwardly with the reactions his fingers were bringing. Her hands gripped his shoulders. She couldn't, not here. But it felt so good. So good. Especially after Neil's rejection.
'Please...' she said, and she didn't know if she meant please, no or please, yes.
He was undoing his zip. She had to stop. Had to. 'No,' she moaned.
'But you want me to.' His voice buzzed dose to her ear.
'Not...'
'...here?' His voice in the darkness was triumphant. 'They won't be finished for another ten minutes. No one will catch you.' He settled himself between her legs, hands on her hips, ready to take her. If I do this now I am lost, she thought, and in reaction cried out.
'No. I said no.' She jerked herself away from him.
He missed and swore. 'You fucking bitch.' Seizing her chance she slid sideways from under him and ran for the school, coat flaring out, feet stumbling in the darkness, hobbled by her clothes. Her breath made puffs of white mist in the cold night air, while behind her the air erupted with shooting stars and screechers.
The classroom lights were on, and she could see the committee chatting, oblivious to her mad flight. She swerved away from them and headed for the side of the building, which was in total darkness. She ducked behind a bay window and crouched down, hugging her knees to her. If he found her she would not be able to break away from him again. She felt her body was imprinted with Patrick, like the after-image left by the sparklers. She squeezed her eyes tight shut. She had to regain control over herself. Her breathing slowly returned to normal. Voices started talking nearby, getting louder, and she guessed that the display had ended. If Patrick had been looking for her he must have given up.
She stood up slowly, knees creaking. Her skirt was rucked up, tights tom. She adjusted her clothes, smoothing them down. They would be hidden under her coat. Isabel retraced her way, back to the party. She noticed that her shoes were caked with mud and tried to scrape some off on the path, standing on each wobbly leg in turn. There seemed to be hundreds of people standing around while shrieking children threaded their way between them. She listened and realised that Mary was drawing the raffle. There seemed no point in trying to push her way through the crowd so she leant against the building, suddenly exhausted with the effort of staying upright.
'Mum, Mum, where've you been?' Michael came zooming out of the crowd, followed closely by Katie. He ducked away from her attempt to caress his head. 'Gerroff. Where are our tickets?'
'Oh. In my pocket, I think. Hang on.' He jiggled up and down while she felt in her coat pockets.
'Hurry, Mummy,' Katie pleaded. Isabel felt very stupid and slow, as if her hands were disconnected from her brain. 'There.' She took out several strips of blue paper, which he snatched from her hand and studied intently.
'Blue, thirty-six. They picked that.'
'Oh dear.' She tried to concentrate. 'Never mind.' Michael was having none of it. He grabbed her wrist and pulled.
'Come on.' He pushed through the crowd heading for Mary, Isabel following meekly. 'Sorry,' she kept saying as she bashed into people. Her legs didn't seem to work properly. 'Sorry.'
The draw finished, the crowd started to disperse, peeling off in clumps. Michael didn't hesitate but marched straight up to Mary, dragging Isabel in his wake.
'Excuse me,' he said politely. 'But my mum's got blue, thirty-six.'
Mary turned with a smile. 'Isabel. You're a bit late.'
'Better late than never,' Isabel was stung to respond. 'Michael thinks he's won something.'
'Blue, thirty-six?' Mary looked at the list in her hand. 'Yes, it did win something. It'll have been set aside for you, in there.' She indicated the classroom.
Michael's face lit up and he rushed off to see.
'Thank you, Mary,' Isabel said, matching her son for politeness. She took Katie's hand and they went through to the classroom. Michael was standing by a small table laden with boxes and bottles of whisky, and beside him was a man. A man with a basket on his arm. Isabel stopped dead on the doorstep. Among the noise of women clearing up, clattering dishes and chatting, she could hear their male voices but couldn't make out the words.
Katie pushed past her. 'What is it? What have we won?'
Isabel followed her with reluctant steps, as if treading on broken glass.
'Here it is!' Michael's voice was triumphant. He waved a small wooden box around. 'Look? Mum.' He turned to her, then added, 'What is it?'
'Cigars, I think.' To her surprise her voice sounded quite normal. Patrick turned, his face tinged with triumph. She walked up to Michael and took the box, turning it over. 'No, cigarillos. They're little cigars.'
'Very useful.' Patrick's voice was sardonic.
'I'm sure they will be. Come along, children.'
'So these are your children.'
'Yes.' She took Katie's hand. 'Come on, Michael. Daddy'll be at home waiting for us.' She willed Michael to come to her.
'Oh, Dad won't be home for ages, he never is.' He was busy examining some of the other prizes. 'Look at that big bottle of whisky. It's just like the ones Grandpa brings us. You'd get very drunk if you had all that.'
'I should have guessed they were yours.' Patrick crouched down so he was Katie's height. 'Hello.' Katie leant into Isabel's coat, half hiding her face. He reached out and touched her hair. 'Pretty,' he said. 'Like her mother.' He stood up. He was very close to her.
'Michael, come now,' Isabel called, failing to keep anger from her voice. Michael reluctantly came to her, clutching his box of cigarillos.
'May I see?' Patrick held out his hand, and Michael handed them to him. 'These are very good. You'll enjoy them.'
Michael rolled his eyes. 'Don't be silly, I'm too young to smoke.'
'So you are. Do you know who I am?' Michael shook his head. 'Your mother works for me.'
'Worked. I worked for you. I don't anymore,' Isabel said. Patrick ignored her.
'My name's Patrick, and you are?'
'Michael.' They shook hands, Michael's hand looking small and trusting in Patrick's.
'Michael, we're going. Now.' Isabel set off, dragging Katie with her, praying that Michael would follow. She walked fast up the path that led to the car park, Katie having to trot to keep up. Another family was ahead, strolling along so Isabel had to slow down. She heard footsteps and panting behind, and then Michael was with her, puffing exaggeratedly from having run.
'Last one to the car is a big fat twit,' he shouted, and he and Katie took off into the darkness. Isabel increased her pace and overtook the dawdlers, anxious that the children might decide to hide. But they were leaning against the car when she arrived. She unlocked it and they scrambled in. She was about to get in herself, when she heard Patrick's voice.
'You forgot this.' He was holding out the basket.
'Stop following me.' She felt wedged in between the parked cars. She shut the car door so the children couldn't hear.
'You might say thank you.'
'What for?'
'Why, returning this of course.'
'I wouldn't have lost it if it hadn't been for you.' She took the basket from him, opened the driver's door and slung it onto the front passenger seat. She started to get in, but he stretched his arm across the door to prevent her.
'You shouldn't have run away from me.'
Furious, she faced him.
'You practically raped me,' she whispered angrily.
He laughed. 'Don't be ridiculous. You want me as much as I want you.'
'No.'
'Why tell lies to yourself?'
'I must go.'
'Why? Daddy won't be back for ages.' His voice was mocking.
'Go away. Just go away.' She pushed past his arm and got into the car, slamming the door shut. Her hands were trembling and it took two attempts to get the key into the ignition. She shot out of her parking space without checking her rear-view mirror, earning her an outraged honk from the car she had just missed, and accelerated away from the school.
Neil was at home when they got back.
'Had a good time?' he called from in front of the television.
The children ran in to greet him while Isabel hung back, uncertain if she could face Neil now. The phone rang and she answered it without thinking.
'I must see you,' Patrick said.
'No. Leave me alone.' But she didn't hang up.
'Don't be so melodramatic. We need to talk.'
'There's nothing to talk about.'
'You know there is. It's not fair to leave me like this.' He let the words hang in the air. It's not fair. He sighed.
'I offered you everything I have, and then you sent me that letter. You owe me some explanation. Let's meet up for lunch and talk.'
'I go swimming at lunchtimes.'
'Not every day, surely. We could go to the pub if you like.' He must have heard her sharp intake of breath and quickly carried on. 'Or somewhere else. You choose.' She pressed the phone closely to her ear as if she could pick up his thoughts through the skeins of wire that connected them, but she said nothing. She was thinking of being against the tree and letting him spread her legs apart.
His voice continued, seductive and low. 'I never took you out to lunch properly when we were together. Let me do it now.'
She hesitated. 'I don't know.'
'You owe me that much.'
'I owe you nothing after tonight.' She made her voice harsh, cold even.
'You wanted it as much as I did.'
He paused, and she knew she ought to say, no, you're mistaken. But the words wouldn't come.
'The house seems empty without you,' he said. 'I miss you.'
I miss you too, she thought. Despite everything, despite her decision. She could hear Michael and Katie's voices, high-pitched and laughing as they told their father about the fireworks. She leant her head against the wall.
'I can't be with you anymore, Patrick. It's impossible.'
'Let's be friends. Let's not end badly.'
'All right.' Her voice was little more than a whisper. 'But not the pub.'
'No, that's fine. What about that new place in town? The one off the market square.'
'Bentham's?'
'Tomorrow? At twelve thirty?'
She swallowed. 'Just to say goodbye properly. Nothing more.'
'Nothing more.'
There was a pause. Then he said, 'I'll see you there.'
'Yes.'
He put the phone down gently and after a few moments, so did she.
- ooo -
Isabel drove past Bentham's, looking for a parking space. She passed Patrick's car and felt a stab of recognition. A few cars on there was a space and she reversed into it, pulling hard on the steering wheel to get her estate car to fit in. It was difficult to concentrate, she was in such a hurry to be there. She checked her make-up in the mirror. Her eyes were bright, cheeks flushed like a woman going to meet her lover.
She examined herself more closely. Low-cut cardigan, buttoned down the front and no shirt underneath so it clung to her breasts, worn with a wrap-around skirt. Dressed for action. She closed her eyes, and rested her head on the steering wheel. Who was she kidding? This wasn't to say goodbye, this was to start up all over again. She had even arranged for the children to go to Helen's house for tea that evening so she could dawdle over lunch. Dawdle all the way to bed.
I've made my decision, and it's the right one, she thought. I must stick to it. I can't leave the children, and the children need to stay here, so I have to stay here. Going to Rome with Patrick is impossible. But it's what you want, her internal voice answered. To be with him, starting out again, the excitement.
I am addicted to him, she thought. And he was waiting for her. She had only to get out of the car and go to him. The alternative was cold turkey. Hard, but not impossible. Not slow withdrawal. The words, slow withdrawal made her stomach contract, thinking of Patrick, that agonising, delicious moment just before he plunged back in. No. She sat up. Don't think of it. Think of the children. Think of Michael and Katie. I have to get away, she thought. I can't be with him. Get away. Get away now. She started the car and shot off, heart pumping, turning off at random. A sign to the station caught her eye and she turned into the road, parked and went to the ticket office.
'When's the next train?'
'Where to?'
'Anywhere.' The ticket man looked at her as if she was mad.
'The Intercity to London should be here in five minutes.'
'Fine. A cheap day return please.' She fumbled with her purse, handed the money over, took the ticket. Milbridge station was old-fashioned, complete with waiting room. She stood in it, pretending to flick through ancient copies of Country Life, her heart thumping. She half expected Patrick to turn up and drag her off, although she knew that was impossible. She'd be safe on the train, safe from Patrick. Safe from herself. The train pulled in. She stepped up into the carriage then paused, one foot on the platform, one in the carriage. She could go back; she'd be only a little late. She thought of Patrick waiting for her, how he'd feel at being stood up. It seemed wrong to just run out on him. She wavered, half in, half out. The guard came up, peaked cap jauntily on the back of his head.
'All right, love?' She looked at him blankly. 'Need a hand there?'
'No, thank you. I can manage.' She moved forwards into the carriage, and the door slammed shut behind her.
- ooo -
Isabel aimlessly trawled down Knightsbridge looking in shop windows. There was so much stuff, but everything either looked like something she had anyway or so radically different she knew she wouldn't wear it. She had a bulging wardrobe full of clothes she didn't wear anyway. It seemed wasteful to add to it. She suddenly remembered that she'd arranged for Justine to come round and 'do' her wardrobe at the end of the week. She stood looking at a red bias-cut dress, head on one side. Now she had lost some weight and had firmed up it might look good. It was certainly different from everything else she had.
The shop was not the sort she usually went into, thinking it too young for her. It struck her that for most of her married life she had been trying to look older than she was, to make up for the fact that she was younger than most of Neil's colleagues' wives. And now she was older. She had missed out on being young. She went into the shop and tried the dress on. She tried to look at the back view, peering over her shoulder. It looked good on her, clinging with a low back. Too good, in fact. It was a fuck-me dress, to go with the fuck-me shoes. And the fuck-me attitude. Don't think of Patrick, she told herself, which immediately made her yearn for him.
It's only sex, she told herself. An addiction. Lust not love. Oh dear. She sat down on a little stool, the red dress swirling round her. Her hair frizzed out in a halo around her face. All that swimming's doing it no good, whatever it's doing to my body. She examined one lock, bursting with split ends. Perhaps I should cut it all off. She put her hair up, holding it with one hand and turning from side to front to get the full effect. She couldn't imagine herself with short hair.
She stared at her reflection. She looked sexy in the dress, felt sexy. But what was the point when you can't have sex? Or at least, you can't have sex with the man you lust after. It was so unfair. She loved Neil, she would never leave Neil and the children. But it was... She bit her lip, thinking. It was safe. Dear, darling, reliable Neil. Safe as houses. But she wanted more. Perhaps if I'd slept around, had more boyfriends, become more experienced I wouldn't feel like this. I'd be content to settle down. I'd know that the grass isn't greener. She sighed.
'You all right?' An assistant stuck her head round the curtain.
Isabel jumped up. 'Yes, fine.' The assistant gave her a swift, calculating look.
'That looks good.'
'Yes.' Isabel sighed again. 'But when would I wear it?'
'At parties, out to dinner, clubbing. Whatever. It's a great dress on you. You ought to get it.'
Isabel looked at the sexy Isabel reflected in the mirror. It was nice to know that she could look like that. If Patrick saw her in it... But Patrick wasn't going to see her in it. 'I'm not going to take it. I love it, but I can't see when I'm going to wear it.'
'Pity.' The assistant withdrew with a shrug and a rattle of curtain rings, while Isabel slowly took off the dress and put her own clothes back on again. She left the shop and carried on, stopping at the corner by the tube. She didn't want to go back to the station to catch a train home, but nor did she feel like going into Harvey Nicks and risking more depressing sessions in changing rooms. Besides, she should go clothes shopping after Justine's visit, not before. What was the point, though, of looking sexy, feeling sexy, when your husband didn't care? She turned the corner into Sloane Street, thinking she'd walk down and go to Peter Jones and look at kitchenware. Her shaggy-haired reflection marched alongside her, past expensive dress shops and a hairdresser's. On impulse she turned in.
'Have you got a free appointment?'
'When for?'
'Now.'
The receptionist looked surprised. 'I'll check the book. Let's see.' She ran a perfectly manicured finger over the appointments book. 'I suppose Karl could do you a cut and blow-dry in about twenty minutes. Any good?'
'Okay,' Isabel nodded, hoping her nerve would last. 'I'll wait here.' She sat on a squishy black leather chair, and nervously flicked through a copy of Vogue. She was halfway through House & Garden when Karl, a willowy young man in trousers that matched the chair, collected her.
'And what can I do for you?' he asked, combing through her hair.
'I want it all off.'
'All of it?' He looked so horrified that Isabel backtracked.
'Well, perhaps not all. But most of it. It's too long. I feel it's dragging me down.'
He started to play with her hair. 'Well, we could take the weight off here and here and...
- ooo -
Isabel bounced up Sloane Street towards the tube station, watching her reflection bounce along with her, tossing its head and running its fingers through a mass of short curls. She felt as though a huge weight was off her shoulders, literally. Her hair had dropped to the ground of the salon in great hanks, more hair than she realised she had. It felt strange to feel the wind tickling the back of her neck, the way her fingers went through her hair so quickly. She was light-headed and light-hearted, young, free and sexy.
At the entrance to the tube she hesitated and checked her watch. She had a few minutes to spare. She ran down to the shop.
'The red dress I tried on,' she panted. 'Have you still got it?'
'Wow. Your hair.' The assistant did a gratifying double-take. 'Looks good.'
'Thanks. The dress?'
'Sure. Here it is.'
Isabel ran her fingers over the silky fabric. 'It's beautiful.' Why shouldn't she look attractive? If she could change, why shouldn't Neil? She gave the assistant a big smile and nodded. 'I'm going to take it.'
- ooo -
'Pretty Mummy!'
'Your hair. It looks amazing. Where did you go?'
'Ugh, what have you done, Mum? It looks awful.' Michael pulled a face, but both Katie and Helen were open-mouthed.
'Tough. I like it.' And she did. Like a girl with a new engagement ring that she keeps on spotting on her hand, Isabel kept tossing her hair. She supposed it was a rather coquettish gesture but she enjoyed the feeling of it swirling against the nape of her neck. And the fringe made her feel she was peering out of a jungle, a sexy wild animal with big eyes. Helen and Katie had been approving, Michael's comment was only to be expected. She had been a little nervous of Neil's reaction; after all, he had once said he would divorce her if she ever cut her hair, but he seemed to like it, walking round her, making appreciative noises.
'Just you wait until you see my new dress,' she promised. She chucked a ready-made meal from the freezer into the oven, laid the table for their supper adding a couple of candles as an afterthought, then got the children to bed. She slipped on the red dress. It seemed very bare about the shoulders now her hair wasn't there to cover it up. She thought of putting on a cardigan, but that seemed to be missing the point of the dress. It was meant to be revealing. She came downstairs and leant against the door to the sitting room where Neil was watching television.
'Dinner is served.' He turned, and his face told her what she had wanted to know.
'That's some dress.'
'D'you like it?'
'Very much.' He got up and followed her through to the kitchen. She could feel his eyes watching her back and swinging hips. She bent down to get the food out of the oven and one of the straps slipped down her shoulder exposing even more breast. She held the hot dish in the oven mitts and went to Neil.
'You couldn't put that up for me, could you? My hands are full.'
He hesitated as if reluctant. His fingertips lightly touched her skin as he pulled the strap up.
'Thank you,' she said politely, and he bowed slightly and said, 'It was nothing.' But she had scented his interest, and the knowledge made her feel powerful. It could work. She could make it work.
They ate the food and drank their wine and talked, Isabel teasing Neil with jokes and pretend misunderstandings. At the end Neil patted his lap.
'Come here, you.' Isabel sashayed over to him. Instead of perching demurely on him she swung her leg over so she straddled him, hoicking the swirling skirt of her dress up over her thighs. Neil ran his hands up under her dress.
'What a sexy girl you are.' They kissed, Isabel cradling his head in her hands. It was like Saturday afternoon again. Perhaps this was the answer, not wait until they were in bed, laid out side by side like medieval effigies on a tomb, but catch him unawares, before his Protestant angst could react. The phone started ringing, and she pulled away from him.
'Let it ring. If it's important they'll call back,' Neil mumbled, his voice thick as he kissed her shoulders.
Isabel paused. The ringing tones were urgent. She knew it was Patrick.
'It's probably a wrong number,' she said. She put her mouth to his again, willing herself not to listen to the phone as it rang on and on, determined and insistent.