Chapter 16

 

 

 

'But I love this,' Isabel said, holding the dress up to her and hugging it.

'Is it your size?' Justine said.

'No.'

'Your colour?'

'Mmm. Not according to you.'

'Is it your colour?'

'I suppose not. Oh, all right, no.' Isabel pulled a face.

'Have you worn it in the last two years?'

'No.'

'Five years?'

'No.'

'Ten years?'

'Help. No.'

'So is it out of date?'

'Yes. But it might come in again,' Isabel added brightly. Justine ignored her.

'Do pleats round the middle do anybody any favours? And are you ever going to fix that missing button?' She pointed an accusing finger and Isabel looked down as if she hadn't noticed it before. Which she hadn't.

'No.'

'So where does it go?'

'The charity-shop pile?'

'Or the chuck pile. Whichever.'

Isabel started to put the dress on top of an already large heap of clothes on her bed, then paused. 'Can't I keep it just because I like it?'

'No.'

'Gosh, you're tough,' she said, impressed by Justine's decisiveness as she laid the dress down.

Justine laughed. 'You'd keep everything otherwise.'

'But I'm going to have nothing left.'

Justine sat down on the bed and leant back on her elbows. 'You had plenty to start with. Don't worry. You'll have less, but what you have will suit you and you'll wear it all the time. All I'm doing is getting rid of the clutter that drags you down and stops you seeing what you really do have.' Isabel looked at the pile of clothes. Justine said, her voice sharp, 'After I've gone, you can shove it all back into your wardrobe if you like and carry on as you have before. Or you can move forward and -'

'I know, “buy less, buy better”. I can see it makes sense, it's just -'

'Hard to get rid of perfectly good clothes?' Isabel nodded, fingering the belt of the discarded dress. She could remember buying it on the last trip to London before she was pregnant with Michael. They'd gone to the theatre.

'But they're not perfectly good clothes,' Justine said. 'They're out of date, they don't fit, they may not even have suited you in the first place.'

'But what about memories?' She couldn't remember the play, just remembered laughing until it hurt. They'd been so happy.

'Cut a bit out of each dress and make a patchwork quilt or a collage. Or get someone to do it for you,' Justine added. 'That way you have the memory without cluttering up your wardrobe.'

Isabel looked at the piles of clothes, some for charity, some destined for the dress agency. She flicked through the clothes left in the wardrobe. It was embarrassing how many clothes she had that had only been worn once, or sometimes not at all. Things bought in the sales because next month she would have lost the weight and would fit into them, but now she could fit them they were out of date. Or dull, respectable clothes bought on the grounds that they would be useful one day, except that they still languished unworn, the labels hanging from buttonholes. She didn't like respectable clothes very much, she decided, looking through the things that were left. From now on she would only buy clothes she liked, not ones she thought she ought to have.

'You're not working for Patrick anymore, I hear.' Justine's voice cut across her thoughts.

'No, that's right.' Isabel was glad Justine couldn't see her face. 'It was too much hassle and as I don't really need the money...' Her voice trailed away. What money? She had finally put Patrick's cheque into her bank account, where it had promptly bounced. She wished she'd torn it up instead.

'How are you doing?' Justine stood up and went to Isabel. Her voice was pleasant. Professional. Just as it should be.

'Oh. I'm fine.' Isabel made herself smile. 'You're right, of course. It all needs to go.'

'Look on it as an opportunity to go shopping.'

'And now I know what to buy. Thank you so much, it's been good. If a bit traumatic.' It felt strange, going through all these old clothes that had ended up at the back of the wardrobe and at the bottom of drawers, carted around in bin liners from one country to the next.

Strange, but good, she thought. Liberating, even.

'Is that your doorbell?' Justine said, her head turning.

Isabel frowned. 'Probably someone collecting for the RSPCA or something. Hang on, I'll be back in a second.' And Isabel went out, leaving Justine in the bedroom.

Isabel skipped down the stairs. First her hair had gone, now all those old clothes. Excess baggage, she thought. Got to get rid of it all. She grabbed her bag, ready to give some money to the collector, and opened the front door.

'Oh.'

Patrick stood in front of her. She had been so deliberately not thinking about him that to see him in the flesh was shocking. He looked equally surprised.

'What have you done to your hair?'

Without thinking she touched it. 'Cut it.'

'You look different.' He frowned. 'Older.'

'Thanks.' You look older too, she thought. His face was strained and for the first time she noticed lines of white in his hair. He'd always been elegant, despite his dishevelled house, but today his jacket looked crumpled and his shirt wasn't properly ironed.

'I didn't mean it like that. More sophisticated. It suits you.' He cleared his throat. 'Aren't you going to invite me in?'

'What do you want?' She could feel her heart thumping.

'I don't want to discuss it in the street. Ask me in.'

'No.' She clutched her bag in front of her, as if he was a bag-snatcher. It had never occurred to her that he'd come to her house. 'Go away.'

'That's not very friendly, is it?' He smiled at her as if she was welcoming him in.

'I don't want to be friendly. I want you to go.' She started to close the door, but he pushed it open. She caught the scent of stale alcohol.

'Don't you want to hear what I've got to say?'

'No.'

'It's a shame you've cut your hair.' He put his hand out to stroke her head, but she turned away from him. He sighed. 'I thought we were going to be friends.'

'No. It's not possible.'

'I don't want us to finish on bad terms. We have to talk.'

'There's nothing to talk about,' she managed to say. 'Go away.'

'Make me.' His voice teased, but his eyes were hard. She suddenly thought of Justine upstairs, Justine possibly listening. She closed the door as far as she could without shutting it completely.

'We can't talk here,' she said quickly, trying to conjure up a way to be rid of him as soon as possible. 'Somewhere else. Wherever you like, I promise I'll be there.'

'I'm afraid it has to be here, right now. I don't want you standing me up again.'

She dropped her eyes. 'I'm sorry about that.'

'Let me in.'

'No.'

'What do you think I'm going to do? Rape you?' The question hung in the air. He reached out as if to touch her cheek but she twisted her head away. He dropped his hand.

'Why did you cut your hair off?'

Isabel said nothing.

'You look different. Sexy.'

Isabel bit her lip. She wondered what Justine was doing upstairs, whether she was aware of Patrick's presence.

She checked the front door was on the latch then stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

'Say what you have to say, right here, then bugger off. I'm not interested in playing games.'

'Makes a change.' His attitude changed from playful to businesslike. 'So. On the doorstep it is.' Patrick pulled out of his jacket pocket a brown manila envelope. 'Now this is the sort of deal I really like,' he began confidently. 'Everybody wins. You, me, Neil. Everybody.' Isabel folded her arms in front of her, trying to look as uninterested as possible, so any casual onlooker might think he was trying to sell her life insurance or washing-up liquid.

'Now, what do you want?' Patrick continued. 'You want your nice house, your nice children and your nice husband. It's all a little dull of course, so you also want a bit of excitement. A lover. But then your lover asks you to come away with him, and you discover that you're not really brave enough. Or, you don't love him enough.' He paused, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. 'But I think you do love him. I think that if he hadn't asked you to leave your husband you'd have been happy to carry on. Isn't that so?'

She looked at the path, refusing to answer him.

'Isabel. Forget Rome. If I stay here, will you come back to me?'

'I can't.'

'I'll ditch Victoria.'

'It doesn't work like that, Patrick,' she cried. 'I don't love you.'

He flinched. 'You're lying.'

She wanted to tell him about promising a stable home for the children, how she'd felt when Michael disappeared. She wanted to tell him how Neil had provided stability for her, the safe haven she had needed, her feelings of obligation to him. How all these things mattered to her, were intrinsic to her sense of self. But it was impossible.

'It's too late. I can't go back.'

'I see.' He licked his lips as if nervous. 'So, you think you can't have the lover and continue to have the nice house et cetera.'

'That's not what it's about.'

'No? I think you're wrong there, but we'll come to that later. Now, what does Neil want? Well, he wants the nice house scenario too, and he likes the idea of having his wife all to himself. Yes, the last thing he wants is to know he's having to share her with someone else.' He looked at her, his expression serious. 'Trust me, I'm a man, I know this. I don't want to share you either.'

Isabel's mouth felt dry. 'And what do you want?'

'Let me tell you what I don't want. I don't want to be stood up, I don't want to be dumped by a pathetic note, I don't want to be pissed around, I don't want to be treated as if I don't matter, as if I have no feelings.' His voice rose until he was almost shouting at her. 'I don't want any of this shit you've been giving me.'

Isabel leant back against the door to stop her legs giving way. 'I'm sorry -' she started, but Patrick cut her off.

'I'm sorry,' he mimicked. 'I'm sorry.' His face was contorted with rage. 'Well I'm sorry, but it's not bloody good enough.'

Isabel pressed herself into the door. All she could think of to say was I'm sorry, which she didn't think would go down very well a second time. If I scream, she thought, Justine will hear and come and help me.

'So, what do you want?' Her eyes challenged his. He took a few steps away from her, breathing heavily, gaining control over himself, smoothing his hair away from his forehead, the normal Patrick, sleek and controlled, reasserting himself.

'I hope I didn't frighten you. I find these constant apologies somewhat ...irritating. And intrinsically untruthful. But never mind.' He looked at the envelope as if the next words he was to speak were written on the blank face. Suddenly Isabel was really frightened, chilled to the bone. 'What I want is for you to come back to me, of course. That's what I want; if you are honest with yourself, it's what you want. We both know that. All this,' he gestured at the house, 'however nice and cosy it is, is never going to be enough for you.'

'That's not true,' she whispered.

'You might kid yourself for a bit, but you need more. If you had been happy you'd never have come to me at the start.'

'It is enough,' she cried, spoiling it by adding, 'and there are other things.'

'Like what?'

'I could get a proper job. One where I got paid, for a start. Or do a degree.'

'Isabel,' Patrick snorted. 'Why sublimate all that sex drive when you could be having the real thing? With me, preferably.' He fingered the flap on the envelope. 'Don't lie to yourself; if it's not me it'll be someone else, sooner or later. Now you've woken up, you can't go back to sleep. It'll be one man after another.'

'It won't.' He looked at her, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. 'It won't because I don't want to. I am happy, and this is enough for me. I love Neil and I don't want anything more. And certainly not you. Patrick, it is over. I can't pretend it's been easy for me, but I've decided what I have to do. And today has just confirmed that it's the right decision. I'm not coming back.' She stared at him defiantly, but was surprised when he just shrugged.

'We'll see.'

'Is that it?' She couldn't believe that he was going to leave it at that and, strangely, felt almost disappointed.

'You said you didn't want to play games anymore. So, no more games. I had hoped that it wouldn't come to this.' With one hand he lifted her chin so she had to look him square in the face. 'I would never, never hurt you. You know that, don't you? But I can't let you destroy what we have. Here's the deal.' Tucking the envelope under his arm he pulled from his inside breast pocket a scrunched-up bundle of cloth. He spread it out and she recognised -

'You wouldn't. Patrick, you wouldn't.' She felt as if her world were crumbling.

'A bit old, but definitely yours, I'd say.' He stuffed the knickers back in his jacket pocket.

'You have a choice. Either your husband knows by, let's say, next Tuesday evening. Or you're round at my place on Tuesday morning, just as before. Don't look so worried, darling. I'm making it easy for you. You get what you really want, and you needn't feel guilty about it. Just blame it all on beastly Patrick.' He kissed her softly on the mouth. 'And just in case you're thinking "I'll say they could belong to any one of a million women", I'm giving you something else.' He pushed the envelope into her frozen fingers, then leant close and whispered.

'Do you remember that little session we had with the camera, one rainy afternoon? That day when you loved me properly?' She could remember clearly, how she had felt gloriously sensual, and then giggling at the photographs with Patrick under the duvet together before making love, excited by her audacity.

His voice was very soft against her ear, his mouth nuzzling her neck.

'That's what I want back. It's what you want too. Don't throw all that away on a man who doesn't appreciate you. And don't think he's going to change; it's either in your nature or it's not. I know you. If I just run my hand down here...'

'No.' Isabel pushed his hand away and he stood back from her, his manner suddenly businesslike.

'I'm leaving a set of photographs here to remind you, and I've got another set for me which I really don't want to send to your husband. But if need be...' He tried to kiss her again, this time more forcefully, his tongue pushing against her clenched teeth. Isabel shoved him away.

'Why are you doing this?' she cried. 'You have Victoria -'

'But I don't want her, I want you.'

'You can't expect me to come back because you're blackmailing me.'

He stopped as if it hadn't occurred to him before to call it blackmail. 'I don't want you to leave me,' he said after a pause, his face lined and heavy.

'But I have, Patrick. I have left you.' There was a pause, both of them breathing heavily. Finally she spoke, amazed at her self-control.

'It never occurred to me that you could do this. That you could be like this.'

He looked shame-faced, like Michael when he'd done something wrong. 'I want you back,' he said, looking at the Welcome mat, not her.

'Isabel?' It was Justine's voice from inside the house. 'Hello? Are you there?'

'I'll be with you in a minute,' Isabel called back. She turned to Patrick. 'Tell me you won't do this.'

'Not if you come back to me.'

She shook her head. 'No. Never.'

'Then I have no choice. It's what we both want, darling.'

'Please go.' She pushed the front door open with a shaking hand.

'You'll be back,' she heard him say as she shut the door behind her. 'You'll be there for me on Tuesday.'

'Isabel? Are you okay?' Justine was leaning over the landing banisters.

'Yes, fine,' Isabel said on autopilot. 'I'll be with you in a minute.'

She took the envelope through into the kitchen and took a quick look at the first photograph. Her legs gave way and she sat down abruptly, her stomach heaving in response to the shock.

'Isabel? Can I come in?' Justine peered round the door. She'd got her coat over one arm and her bag on her shoulder as if she was on her way out. Isabel quickly shoved the photographs back into the envelope.

'Are you all right?' Justine's face was anxious.

'No. No, I'm not.' Isabel's lower lip quivered and she blinked rapidly, trying to stop herself from crying. 'I'm sorry. It's just - I've had a bit of a shock.' She opened the cupboard under the sink and buried the envelope in the rubbish bin, then turned round, hand over her mouth.

'Sit down, you're not well. Let me get you some tea.'

Isabel was hardly aware of Justine as she started to, bustle about, boiling the kettle, pulling out mugs from the cupboard. She could feel herself shaking and clung onto the edge of the table with both hands. Justine came and sat next to her, putting her hand tentatively on Isabel's shoulder.

'What's the matter? Was it someone at the door?'

'Yes.' Isabel opened her mouth, gave a hiccupping sort of gasp, and then began sobbing. She couldn't help herself, she cried and shook, the shock devastating her nervous system, while Justine patted her on the back, saying, there, there, never mind and other soothing noises.

Would you like to tell me about it? Would that help, mmm?'

'He says... he says...'

'What?' Justine's voice was soft but insistent.

'He says he's going to tell Neil unless...'

Tell Neil what?'

Isabel felt constricted as if her skin had suddenly become one size too small, stretching taut over her cheekbones, making her chest feel as if it could explode outwards if too much strain was put on it. She didn't think she could bear it. She had to share it with someone.

'Tell Neil what?' Justine repeated.

'I've been having an affair with Patrick,' Isabel cried, 'and he says he's going to tell Neil unless I go back to him and I don't know what to do.'

'I see.' Justine's face seemed rigid, as if she was controlling herself with great effort. But her voice was calm as she said, 'You need some tissues.'

Isabel waved her hand. 'Kitchen paper. Over there.'

'Right.' Justine got the kitchen paper and handed the roll to Isabel. Isabel started to mop herself up, talking in-between sniffs.

'I haven't told anyone about it, no one knows, and now he says he's going to tell everybody.'

Justine sat down. 'When did it start?'

'Beginning of term,' Isabel began, slumping down onto another chair. 'Not long really.' Oh, God. She pressed her hand to her mouth, biting her knuckle to stop herself from crying again. 'I finished it over half term. But now Patrick says that unless I go back to him, he'll tell Neil.'

'Do you love him?'

'Neil? Of course.'

'No. Patrick.'

'I could have done, but he wouldn't let me. He said we weren't to fall in love so I tried very hard not to. I don't know. It was so exciting, I couldn't think.'

'And now?'

Isabel sighed. 'I wish it had never happened. No, I don't, it was wonderful, but now...'

'Now it's not so simple.'

'No. You know Patrick.' She remembered all at once exactly how well Justine knew Patrick. She wanted to ask Justine how it had ended, once Caro had found them, how Patrick had reacted. Instead she said simply, 'Do you think he'll tell?'

'Even if he does, Neil might not believe him.'

Isabel went scarlet, and looked down at the table. Neil probably wouldn't believe Patrick if she insisted he was lying. Neil, who believed his wife would tell the truth, had always told him the truth. 'It's not that simple. He's got -' Isabel swallowed, and traced a pattern with her finger on the wooden table. 'He's got evidence. Photographs.'

'Oh, Isabel. No. How could you?' Justine's face was a mixture of horror and glee.

'It seemed a good idea at the time.' She raised her shoulders in a gesture of apology. Justine laughed at that, a short bark of a laugh. Then she became serious.

'What a stupid thing to do. How could you be so -' Justine stopped before she said the word, but Isabel knew what she'd been going to say.

'I know.' Isabel put her head in her hands. 'I don't know what to do.'

Justine stood up and walked round the kitchen. She seemed to be working something out, turning over the options in her head. Or at least, Isabel hoped she was. At last Justine said, 'I think you should tell Neil.'

'I can't.' Isabel shook her head. 'You don't know him; he'd never forgive me.'

'What about going back to Patrick?'

'Never.'

There was silence. Isabel felt so angry that tears came, hot and desperate. 'I hate him for doing this,' she cried. 'He's ruined everything. How could I go back?'

'Then the only option left is to call his bluff and hope he won't tell Neil.'

Justine's voice sounded distant. Isabel snuffled, trying to stop crying. After all, she hardly knew Justine. 'I'm sorry. All this stuff. It's so embarrassing. I haven't even offered you a coffee or a tea.'

'No, thanks, I'm fine.' Justine looked at her watch. 'I ought to be getting back. We've finished With the wardrobe sorting.'

'Oh, yes, that,' Isabel said vaguely. Clearing out her wardrobe seemed to have taken place a very long time ago.

'Could I have a cheque now? I know it's a bad time but...'

'I'm sorry. Of course you can have a cheque.' Isabel looked around her. 'I must have left my bag in the hall. Hang on a second, I'll just go and get it.' At the door she stopped. 'Justine. Thanks for being here. I'm sure it must have been very embarrassing. You will -' she paused, searching for the words. 'I'm sure you will be, but obviously I'd rather no one knew about this. You will be discreet, won't you?'

'Of course,' Justine said. 'Don't worry.'

'Thanks. For everything.' Isabel smiled at her, then went out to find her bag, which she had dropped by the front door. She opened it and searched through the jumble to find her chequebook. The everyday action caught her unawares, and with a pang she realised that everything she took for granted might disappear if Patrick carried out his threat. Neil, the children, down to her usual surroundings: the chest, the plates, the fraying rug. She didn't know if she could carry on pretending everything was all right, waiting for the bombshell to hit. Then she remembered Justine, waiting in the kitchen for her cheque. Isabel wrote the cheque out, hoping that the bank would pass her signature although it was all over the place, and went back into the kitchen.

'Here you are.'

'Thanks.' Justine took the cheque and left.

Isabel watched her climb into her trim little car. 'I shouldn't have told her,' she thought. Anxiety, as sticky and unpleasant as cold rice pudding, came over her slowly. She felt completely alone. 'Too late now to worry about her when there's Patrick to deal with,' she thought.

 

- ooo -

 

Isabel spent the rest of the day going through the options. She thought about ringing Patrick up and pleading with him, but decided against it. She knew what would happen; he would suggest she came round and discussed it. Which was impossible. The children, sensing her preoccupation, became demanding. They fought all the way home, bickering at best, thumping each other at worst.

'For Pete's sake,' she screeched. 'Can't you just stop it for once? You'll have enough of it when you're married, so why do it now when you're children?'

'I'm not going to get married,' Katie said. 'Boys are disgusting.'

'Girls are aliens,' Michael replied. 'They're not human at all.'

And they were off again, squabbling and niggling, until Isabel thought her head would implode from the constant barrage.

'Stop it. You're driving me mad.'

'But, Mum . . .'

'Stop it. Or you can walk the rest of the way home.' Never threaten what you won't carry out, all the childcare books said. She would never let them walk home from this point; they were too young and unused to heavy traffic. Fortunately the children subsided into small grumbles. She drove on, wondering if Patrick had read any childcare books. Would he carry out his threat?

Back at home she wandered aimlessly round the kitchen, burning the first batch of fish fingers, while the children squabbled over the television remote control. She longed for Neil to come home, yet dreaded his appearance. If she told him, would he be kind and understanding? Or stern and unforgiving? It occurred to her that she had never seen him really angry. Tired, pissed-off, annoyed, yes. But not filled with rage. The thought made her feel sick.

How would she feel if he told her he had a mistress? She tried it out, but the only emotion was complete disbelief. She simply couldn't imagine Neil doing such a thing.

Would that be how he would feel about her? She hadn't felt like a faithless wife before, because somehow, in her mind, the sexual side had been paramount with Patrick; the rest of her had continued to be a dutiful wife and mother. More so, in fact, as the affair had given her more energy and direction than before. And although their sex life had dwindled, Neil being too tired from commuting during the week, she felt she was a better wife and mother because of the affair.

She sighed. She didn't think that that argument was going to appeal to Neil. The loss of trust would hit him badly, as it would do her if she had been in his position. While she thought about faith and trust a sneaky sliver of a thought crept into her mind. Perhaps there was a chance that she might bluff her way through, use Neil's faith and trust, say that Patrick was a fantasist, that of course she hadn't had an affair. But then there were the photographs. She blushed to think of the photographs. They had shocked her. She had looked so naked. Stripped of shame, of inhibition, of reserve. She could remember posing, feeling free and empowered, the old uncertain Isabel left behind. Empowered. Liberated. She could weep at her naivety.

The children had their baths, taking advantage of her absentmindedness to have a splashing fight, which left more water outside the bath than in it, then went to bed. Isabel read them their bedtime stories, all the time her mind churning over whether she should tell Neil. It dawned on her that Neil might forgive the affair - a moment of madness, ended almost before it had started - but he would never, ever forgive the photographs. The Isabel they showed was an Isabel he had never seen, never would see.

Neil came back late, after the children had settled for the night, grumbling about the trains, and stomped off upstairs to change. She heard him shouting and rushed up to their room.

'What the hell is this?' He pointed to the mounds of clothes heaped up over the bed. One of the mounds had tumbled onto the floor, spreading over discarded shoes in a colourful lavaflow.

'Sorry, Justine came over and did her colours and wardrobe thingy. I had forgotten all about it.' It seemed like years ago. 'I meant to put them into bin liners.'

'What, all of them? Seems a bit of a waste.'

'I haven't worn most of them for years.' She found a space on the bed and sat down, sending more clothes tumbling to the floor. She felt as if she were a hundred and thirty-six, shrivelled skin and fragile bones. 'Apparently these are the wrong sort of colours for me.'

'What should you be wearing?'

'Light, clear colours. I've got a little book of swatches.' She flopped backwards ignoring the clothes and stared at the ceiling. There was a thin diagonal crack running to the edge of the cornice that she had not noticed before. Or perhaps she had noticed it before, staring at the ceiling while Neil made love to her, but each time she had closed her eyes and forgotten about it. It's all very well having your husband as your best friend, she thought, but what happens when you want your best friend's advice on whether to confess to your husband that you've been having an affair? She closed her eyes.

'Isabel. How the hell are we going to sleep here tonight?'

'I'll sort it out,' she said, not moving.

'I see.' She could hear him moving around as he changed out of his suit, showing his irritation by wrenching drawers open and muttering under his breath. She heard the familiar creak of the wardrobe door. 'The wardrobe looks better at least. Perhaps I might get some of my things in there.' He paused. 'Do you want me to help put all this stuff away?'

His words were willing but she could tell from the tone it was an empty offer.

'No, no, I'll do it. Honestly.' She opened her eyes and levered herself off the bed. 'You go down and have a drink. Supper'll be ready in about ten minutes.' She started to shovel clothes into bin liners - charity, jumble, second-hand shop. This morning I felt as if I was getting rid of my old life, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, she thought. And now, just half a day later, here I am, trying desperately to think of a way to save it. She went downstairs, dragging two of the bags behind her, letting them thump their way over the treads, then left them in the hall while she went to serve Neil his supper.

 

- ooo -

 

The weekend passed. Isabel did the things she usually did: cook, clear, tidy up, take the children for a walk, chauffeur Katie to her ballet class and sit on the canal next to Michael fishing, the dreary water suiting her mood. She began writing an email to Frances, then stopped when she realised that it could become yet another thing to incriminate her. Even supposedly deleted material could hang around on hard drives and Neil was so much better at computers than she was. It would be ironic if Patrick didn't carry out his threat, only for her to be caught by an explanatory email to Frances.

On Saturday night Neil and Isabel drove into Fordingbury to see a film. Billed as a romantic comedy it struck Isabel as neither romantic nor funny, but Neil seemed to enjoy it. Isabel sat in the darkness holding Neil's hand while twenty-foot-high heads talked and kissed and laughed, and things went wrong, but it all worked out in the end. The weather was appalling as they drove back, wet and cold. Isabel sat in the car, windscreen wipers swishing back and forth efficiently, and thought that, if this were a film, she would tell Neil now, while the light from the instrument panels made strange dark shadows over their white faces. The closing shot would be of the windscreen wipers, back and forth, back and forth. She said nothing.

On Monday morning she knew she had to decide, and soon. Would Patrick really go through with his threat? Perhaps it would be better to go back to him and wait for him to get bored with her. She couldn't imagine wanting to have sex with someone who didn't want you. But then Patrick didn't believe that she didn't want him. He thought that he was helping her to make the decision she really wanted to make, but was prevented by conventional morals from doing so. Or so he said. Did she want him? She had, but not now. Not just because of losing Neil and the children, but how could she want a man who would blackmail her?

She swam up and down the pool at lunchtime, trying to work Patrick out. Funny, willful, spoilt? Yes. Spiteful? Possibly. He had been furious when he came to the house and shouted at her, although he had quickly regained control over himself. Control. Perhaps that was it. He didn't like the fact that he couldn't control her. Blackmail was the only way. But would he go through with it? If he went to Neil he would lose the only power he had over her. By length twenty-four she was starting to feel that he might not go through with his threat; by length thirty-three she had convinced herself that he wouldn't do anything. She usually got out at this point, but anxiety drove her on. By length forty she was thinking about being in the house with Patrick, the good times, the first time, that first kiss. She swam, tears flowing, the salt mixing invisibly with the chlorine, until she was thrown out to make way for the school swimming lessons.

She was very sweet to Neil that evening, aware that it was possibly the last one when he still believed in her. Unconsciously she treated him as though he were an invalid who would be told terrible and terminal news the next day. While Neil slept, Isabel stayed awake in the darkness, staring at the invisible crack in the ceiling.

On Tuesday morning she drove the children into school as usual. At the exit to the drive she hesitated. Left to Patrick, right to home. She hesitated. The woman behind her tooted her horn and Isabel decided which way to turn.