'Blimey,' Neil said on entering the kitchen. 'It's a bit strong.'
'D'you like it?'
He looked around, his face as gloomy as the room was bright. 'It's only paint, I suppose. You could always go over it with something. Tone it down a little.'
'Have you seen the sitting room yet?'
'Oh no, what have you done there?'
'It's blue.'
'Blue.'
'It's nice. Come and see.' Isabel held out her hand to him but he didn't take it, although he stood up and followed her. 'Well?'
'Yup. It's blue.'
'Don't you like it?'
'No, not very much.'
Isabel watched him as he rocked back on his heels, hands on hips like a farmer surveying the damage to his crops after a rainstorm. It didn't seem the time to tell him that she meant to paint the bedroom - their bedroom - a Chinese lacquer red. The night before she'd offered to move into the spare bedroom but Neil had said he was too tired to talk. He'd clambered into their bed and lay, apparently insensible, while she'd hesitated at the edge of the bed. Moving into the spare room would give the impression that she didn't want him back, she thought, which wasn't what she wanted. Was it? In the end she slipped into bed and lay awake for the next three hours, wondering about where Neil had been and why he had come back that night, all the while listening to Neil's snoring and feeling frozen because he had snugly wrapped himself in three-quarters of the duvet so that her legs stuck out into the cold night air.
He'd come back, but seemed distinctly uncommunicative. She wondered what it meant. Perhaps he needed more abject apologies, more grovelling from her before he could magnanimously forgive her. She didn't think he was going to forget. The children were overjoyed, even Michael had jumped on the bed, whooping. Katie made her father burnt toast for breakfast, her little face wrinkled with anxiety in case he didn't like it. He managed to make a pretence of eating it, rather grudgingly, Isabel thought, although Katie was content. Isabel glanced at the clock. If they didn't get on they'd miss their slot at the wildlife park.
'Neil? I'd made a few plans for the day.'
'I've got things to sort out here.' He sounded distinctly huffy.
'No, you misunderstand me. I meant, do you want to come too? We're only going to the wildlife park to see Father Christmas, and then I thought we'd go shopping in Fordingbury.'
'You've got it all organised, you carry on.'
She wasn't sure if he wanted her to beg him to come with them or if he was genuine.
'I hope you haven't painted my study.'
'Of course not,' she said, although she thought she'd use a soft sage green should it ever become her study.
The wildlife park was bleak, the wind whipping in off the Downs. Family clusters stood huddled together for warmth, peering into enclosures to see red pandas and bandicoots. The butterfly house was popular, a steamy oasis of heat, but the contrast on coming out made the bitter wind feel like knives slicing across rosy faces.
She'd been right. Michael was too old, and so was Katie. Most of the other children were toddlers or nursery-school age. Katie sat on Father Christmas's knee, eyeing his white beard warily.
'So what do you want for Christmas' - he looked at his prompt sheet - 'Katie?'
'For my Daddy to stay at home and not go away any more,' she said in a clear voice. Isabel felt the words like a stabbing pain in her heart. She had tried so hard to pretend that everything was all right with Neil, that he was coming home. Now he was back, but there were no guarantees that he would stay there. At that moment she promised that if she had to eat humble pie for the rest of her life she would do it to give Katie her Christmas wish.
Father Christmas looked uncomfortable. 'Well, that's a hard thing to fit down a chimney. Is there anything else you'd like?'
'A puppy,' Katie said firmly. Isabel shook her head and Father Christmas moved on to Michael.
Michael looked terminally embarrassed although he was quick to supply a list of what he wanted for Christmas: a twenty-foot pole rod, a new keep net and a priest, which made Father Christmas blink in surprise.
'You use it for knocking fish out. Like a cosh,' Michael said, demonstrating with gusto. Father Christmas gave each of them a present - a tea set for Katie and a jigsaw of a steam engine for Michael - and beckoned the next family on with relief.
'Why didn't Dad come?' Michael asked, but Isabel hadn't got an answer for him.
Afterwards they traipsed round the Fordingbury shops. Although it was only mid-afternoon the Christmas lights were on, bright stars and angels blowing trumpets strung across the streets in looping swags. Shop windows glowed, piled high with goodies. There was a buzz of excitement in the air, and at the end of the market square a brass band was playing carols. Isabel bought a copy of The Big Issue, thankful that she wasn't homeless.
The children bought presents for teachers and Neil's family: Moira, Ian, Heather and her husband. Heather was expecting a baby in the New Year. Isabel knew that Heather wanted a boy. She was imbued with the Freeman attitude that boys were somehow better, even though it meant she'd been overlooked as a successor to Ian's business. Isabel's hand lingered over the diminutive toes of a blue sleepsuit. It seemed absurd to think of blue being only for boys and pink for girls and that it was tempting fate to choose either, especially when the alternatives were lemon yellow or mint green, both of which tended to emphasise the boiled goblin look of the newborn baby. In the end she bought a cheerfully bright mobile, and whisked the children off to the cafe for hot chocolate.
The children made a huge fuss of Neil when they got home, insisting that he read stories and put them to bed. Isabel worked quietly in the kitchen preparing supper, opening a bottle of Rioja to let it breathe. She laid the table carefully; she didn't want it to appear a celebratory meal, so no candles. On the other hand, she wanted it to look as if she'd made an effort. In the darkness of the garden she found some sprigs of evergreen - rosemary and a variegated euonymous - and a stem of winter jasmine. The yellow spikes reminded her of the nerines she had once picked in Patrick's garden, but that seemed long ago. The fragile beauty of the nerines would have shrivelled with the first frosts.
Neil didn't notice her flower arrangement, or if he did, he made no comment. They sat opposite each other, Isabel trying to get a conversation going while Neil gave monosyllabic answers. She wasn't sure what he wanted. Perhaps he was expecting her to beg his forgiveness, or perhaps they would fall back into being together without ever discussing what had happened. Perhaps he wanted to pretend that nothing had happened. But something had happened. It couldn't be swept under a bland carpet of politeness.
Finally she couldn't bear it any more. 'Neil, what's going on? Are you back, or what? I don't know if I'm about to be divorced or what.'
'Do you want a divorce?'
'Do you?'
He didn't say anything to that, just stared at his hands. Isabel felt the word 'divorce' coil around the room like smoke. The big D word. She thought of other D words: depressed, despondent, disheartened. It was a struggle to think of any positive D words.
'I don't know what to say. Or what you want me to say,' Neil said at last. 'I want to be here, for the children. I want to keep the family together. But you -' he stopped and poured himself some more wine. 'Every time I look at you I see those photographs. The moment when I held them in my hands and realised what I was seeing...'
His hands shook when he raised the glass to his mouth.
'I'm so sorry,' Isabel whispered.
'Sometimes I wish you were dead.'
She hung her head, as if baring her neck for the executioner's axe. 'I know I deserve every horrid thing you can say about me.' She lifted her head. 'But if it hadn't been for the photographs, you wouldn't have known anything. I'm not saying that makes it better, but I had finished with him. It was over.'
'I don't know Isabel. I don't know if I could ever trust you again.' He got up and stood by the window, looking out into the darkness.
'But you have to. If we're going to live together again.'
He turned round. 'How do I know it won't happen again?'
She thought about making promises, but her promises would be worthless. 'You don't know. You can't. People don't come with guarantees. All I can say is that I won't risk the children's future again.'
'So for the children's sake, I'm to forgive and forget?'
'If you can.'
'I don't know if that's possible.' He sat down again and ran one hand over his hair. 'I can't talk about this now. I need to think.'
'Okay. Perhaps some other time.' She started to clear away the dirty plates in silence.
Neil drained his glass. 'I don't want to divorce,' he said abruptly. 'We don't do divorce in my family.'
'So your mother told me,' Isabel said. She wondered if this was going to be the deciding factor in her marriage continuing. Not because Neil forgave her, or loved her, but because the Freemans didn't 'do' divorce. It seemed a mean little reason, as if all ills could be solved by never referring to them and letting them dwindle into a miserable compromise.
Neil went upstairs to bed. Isabel tidied up in the kitchen, uncertain of what she was to do. In the end she, too, went upstairs. She undressed in the dark and slid into the cold bed, listening to Neil's steady breathing. She wondered what he was thinking. Perhaps he was lying there hating her. Or loving her and hating her at the same time. She didn't know if anyone other than a saint could forgive the sort of hurt she had given him. She curled up facing away from him and closed her eyes for sleep.
She was dreaming about being buried under flowers, rosemary tangling with nerines and winter jasmine. The weight on top of her was pressing down like stones, crushing the breath out of her. She woke, confused, but the weight was still there. Neil was on top of her, pushing into her. Still half asleep, she cried out.
'Shut up,' Neil muttered.
She was going to protest, push him off, then she remembered Katie wishing for her Daddy to stay forever, and she let her hands fall back.
There was a clip she had seen on television once, of two giant tortoises mating, the male perched precariously on top of the female, scrawny neck outstretched with effort, shells clashing. The female had offered no resistance, stood still with mouth clamped in a line of endurance. Isabel clamped her own lips together. She knew why he was doing this: this had nothing to do with pleasure. He was reclaiming her as his own after Patrick. Pushed up the bed, her head thumped against the headboard, she put her hand up to try to cushion the blows. Thump, thump, thump. Her fingers were hurting, rhythmically crushed between her skull and the hard surface of the headboard. Push, push, push. Her lower body burned with a dry, searing ache. But she made no effort to hurry him up, just lay passively accepting the pain, hoping it would be over soon. And it was. A sudden crescendo, then Neil rolled off and she was left to curl up again and try to go back to sleep.
- ooo -
The weekend ground on. The children frisked around a monosyllabic Neil who settled down amid the Sunday papers and the Grand Prix on the television as if he had never been away. Isabel piled Katie's things into the centre of her room and slowly painted it lilac. It'll match the shadows under my eyes, she thought, as her arms mechanically went up and down, up and down with the roller. Only Michael's room was left to paint, as Neil had refused to let her paint the bedroom in any colour, let alone crimson.
'I could try something less dramatic, like pale orange,' she tried.
Neil rolled his eyes. 'It's fine as it is,' he said, his voice as bland as the magnolia walls.
Monday morning was grey, as if the sun had decided it was pointless to emerge until Tuesday. Neil left for work, leaving behind the post, Isabel noticed. He obviously didn't want any more surprises on the commuter train. Also, most of it was for her. Two more prospectuses, Christmas cards from Saudi and Malaysia and a white envelope. She opened it and pulled out an invitation. Mrs Richard Wright. At Home. Isabel had to think for a second who it was from. It was ironic that someone so full of personality as Mary could be subsumed by her husband's name. She flipped it over. On the back Mary had written in neat, round writing: People have short memories. Do come, with or without. Your husband, Isabel supposed. She flicked the card with her fingers, wondering what to do. Then she put it on the mantelpiece. It was kind of Mary to invite her.
By coincidence, she bumped into Mary at the school. She reiterated the invitation verbally, then lowered her voice.
'My dear, Patrick is devastated. He says -'
'Neil came back this weekend,' Isabel cut in quickly.
Mary paused, then said, 'I see.'
Isabel stared over the grey tarmac of the playground, not meeting Mary's eyes. 'It's going to be difficult,' she said carefully, 'but I think we're going to make a go of it.'
'Ah.' For a second Mary looked disappointed, then gave a little shake as if putting the mantle of PTA Chairman back on. 'Good for you. A very sensible decision.' She patted Isabel's arm.
I don't feel as if I've made any decisions, Isabel wanted to wail, sensible or otherwise. It's all happening to me and I don't get any choices. She rubbed her forehead with her hand, as if rubbing put the creases.
'You know you can call me and talk about it,' Mary said very gently. 'I would understand.' Isabel looked sharply at her. Did Mary mean that she'd had an affair?
Mary looked at the ground and Isabel could see the family resemblance between her and Patrick. 'All marriages have their rocky patches,' she said. 'It comes with the territory. So.' She sniffed, the usual brisk Mary reasserting herself. 'Ring me if you want to, or come round for coffee. And come to my party. It'll do you good.'
'I don't think -'
'Patrick won't be there, if that's what you're worried about. He's gone to Italy.'
She didn't want to ask, but had to. 'Alone?'
Mary shot her a look. 'Victoria's gone to London,' she said. 'I think she realised that Patrick was emotionally involved elsewhere. As much as Patrick can be emotionally involved.'
I'm sorry,' Isabel said, but she wasn't sure if she was sorry for Victoria or Patrick. Or herself.
'Never mind, it wasn't your fault. Nor Patrick's, in a way. He doesn't mean to be destructive, he just is. Now, I must go. Look after yourself.' And she bustled off while Isabel set off for work, thinking of how destructive Patrick had been to her and her family. She suspected Patrick would say he had been a catalyst, not a destroyer.
- ooo -
Like most Monday mornings the shop was quiet. She trudged back and forth between the stock room and the shop floor, restocking the shelves, thinking about Patrick, about Neil, about choices and sensible decisions, about catalysts for change. Adam didn't say much either, as if he too was thinking. As she moved the books around she realised that some of the strength she had acquired from swimming was ebbing. The muscular tightness around her middle, the feeling of having a core of strength, was fading. She hadn't swum since the final break-up with Patrick.
At lunchtime she went down to the pool to pick up leaflets on the children's holiday programme. The air in the foyer was dense with steam and chlorine, hot after the chill outside. Through the glass she could see the swimmers, ploughing their way up and down the pool, sleek and mobile as seals. That was me, once, she thought. She leant her head against the hard glass, sick with unhappiness. But I've got what I wanted, she thought. A stable home for my children, complete with father. I've even got a job. It'll just take time to settle back to normal.
Business picked up in the shop over the afternoon. In-between customers Adam asked if she had filled in the college application forms.
'Not yet.'
He frowned. 'Isn't the deadline soon?'
'After Christmas.'
'But it would be good to get the papers in before the deadline.'
'Neil's back,' she said suddenly. Adam didn't answer immediately.
'You must be pleased,' he said finally, sounding very formal and distant.
'Yes I am. Of course.' She felt close to tears.
'I'm pleased for you.'
'Thanks.'
They stood side by side behind the counter, not saying anything, watching the customers look through the books. She knew he thought she'd given up because Neil had come back and was disappointed in her. But change is frightening, she wanted to tell him. I want to be back to normal. And in her head the male tortoise climbed on top of the female tortoise and took back his property, while the female clamped her lips together and was silent.
- ooo -
'Isabel? What's all this stuff doing, cluttering up the place?' Neil was back from work, scratchy with irritation. He was picking up the stack of prospectuses.
'They're mine,' Isabel said. She took a deep breath. 'I was thinking of going to college next year.'
'What for?'
'For me. Because I'm interested. Because I want to do something with my life.'
'I see. So who will look after the children while you're off being a student?'
'There are three universities within an hour's drive of here, plus the FE college at Fordingbury. It won't make any difference to the children. They're at school all day, and I'll have the same holidays as them.'
'What about money? You don't get grants any more, you know.'
'I know. I'm not eligible anyway, having been abroad,' She gathered her thoughts. 'I'm going to sell my parents' house.'
'But we use the rental money for the school fees.'
'I know, but the way property has been going, it's worth a lot of money. There's enough to fund me going to university as well as paying the children's school fees.'
'We agreed it would go on education.' Neil's face was mulish.
No, Isabel thought of saying. You decided and I agreed. But instead she said lightly, 'Why not my education?'
Neil rifled the prospectuses, the glossy pages making a soft blur of sound. 'So, what will you do with your education?'
'Teach.' She searched his face, trying to gauge his response.
He leant back on his chair.
'I suppose there's no harm in trying.'
She waited to see if he was going to say anything more.
'What's for supper?' he said.
- ooo -
It was fortunate that Neil had stopped searching through the mail before he left for work because a few days later Isabel received a plump letter with a Roma postmark. She tucked it into her bag without opening it, knowing who it was from, wondering what he had to say to her. The shop was busy so she had to wait until her morning break. She escaped into the stock room and closed the door. Perched on boxes of books she took the letter from her bag and opened it.
Inside was another envelope, containing three film negative strips, a postcard of the Coliseum with an address on the other side, and a small package wrapped in tissue paper. She sat with it in her hand, thinking of the beginning, the first kiss. She had felt so excited, expectant, electric with life and its possibilities. And now?
The door opened and Adam came in. 'Everything okay?'
In answer Isabel held out her hand. Patrick's signet ring glistened in the palm of her hand.
'I don't seem able to break free,' she said. It should have felt strange saying something so personal to her employer, but it felt natural to confide in him. Adam leant against the door, his face serious.
'Do you want to?'
'Yes. And no.' She fingered the ring. 'If I let go, I feel as if I'm closing the door on everything that's alive.'
'Do you love him?'
She shook her head.
'And Neil?'
'I don't know. I've been with him my whole adult life. I can't imagine life without him. Is that love? It's not violins and rockets, we just trundle along in our little world, every year settling deeper into the ruts.'
'It doesn't sound like love to me.' His face was sad, and she wondered about his past.
'The children love him.'
The shop doorbell rang and he moved as if to go.
'I must go back. Come up when you can.' At the door he turned back to her. 'Don't forget that there are always alternatives.' He looked as if he was going to say something else, but the bell rang again. He smiled at her and shrugged. 'I have to go.'
Isabel felt ashamed. It was Adam's shop, and she was the employee, yet he was the one who was going to deal with the customers. She hurriedly shoved Patrick's letter and ring back into her bag, and went up to join Adam.
She thought about what Adam had said about alternatives all day. Perhaps her choice was not, as she had thought, between Patrick and Neil, but between staying in a rut and moving on. Moving on didn't have to mean moving to Patrick, or leaving Neil. She could move on within her marriage, through developing herself. In that way she could maintain the stable home for her children that she so wanted for them. Talking about becoming a student hadn't seemed real before, more an elaborate party game, but now she realised that it was more important than that.
When she got home she waited until Neil had gone up to bed. The blue of the sitting-room walls was nearly as blue as the sky behind the Coliseum on the postcard. She flipped the card over. Patrick had scrawled his Rome address in his terrible handwriting, an unspoken invitation to a new beginning. He was destructive, Mary said, but he didn't mean to be so. The ring was heavy in her palm. Emotionally involved, Mary said, as much as he was able. Isabel shook her head. Poor Patrick. She didn't love him, that much she knew.
She found an envelope, wrote the address on it, then tore the postcard into pieces and put them on the fire, along with the strips of film negative. The cellophane curled and twisted as if in pain, then dissolved into the flames. Finally the ring. It was heavy in her palm, a beautiful gold circle. Without trying it on she wrapped it up again, put it into the envelope and sealed it. It was over.