Chapter 22

 

 

 

'I was flattered by the attention,' Neil said, leaning against the sink. 'What more can I say? I don't want to go into detail, any more than I expect you want to hear it.'

Isabel, elbows on the kitchen table, put her face in her hands and rested it there. Her head felt it might explode with information and questions and anguish and the blood thumping at her temples. She'd had to wait until the babysitter had gone home to ask, and now here she was. Neil and Justine. Neil and Justine. Only the comforting familiarity of her palms against her eyes seemed to keep her brain from spilling out over the yellow gingham tablecloth.

'When did it start?'

'Not long after you went to work for that man.'

'So at that dinner party...'

'Yes.'

Isabel reached back in her mind. She could remember thinking that Neil had been unfriendly to Justine, and being surprised because they had got on so well when they'd originally met.

'I feel I've been very stupid,' she murmured. 'So stupid.'

'You had other things on your mind.' She looked up at him. Neil rubbed the back of his neck. 'It's late. Let's call it quits. Both of us have had flings. Both of us have ended them. Going over and over who did what, and when, won't make any difference.'

'But why?' Isabel said.

'Coming here... I don't think you realise how difficult moving here's been for me. The move from being hands on, your own boss more or less, to working in an office, all the politics and manoeuvring. You weren't interested.'

'And she was?'

'Yes. Oh yes, Justine would be the perfect corporate wife, knowing who to suck up to, who mattered, playing the political game.' He sounded bitter.

Isabel felt guilty. She knew she'd taken little interest in Neil's work. She'd hardly considered what coming to work at head office would mean to him. But Justine had. Neil and Justine. She was stabbed with the pain of betrayal.

'How could you?' she cried out. 'I trusted you.'

'And I trusted you. I trusted you even though Justine had warned me about that man.' He shrugged. 'I'm not going to feel guilty about this. These things happen.'

'So we just forgive each other and say everything's okay.'

What else is there?'

'You've made me feel like dirt these last weeks, made me crawl, made me...' A vision of the giant tortoises came into her head, and she hugged herself, rocking backwards. 'When all the time you were... It's so hypocritical.'

'And what about you? Did you think of the children? At least I left no evidence.'

'So it's okay so long as you don't get caught.'

'No. But my God, it makes it less painful.' He wiped his hand across his face. 'Water under the bridge now. That's how it's got to be. Water under the bridge.'

She didn't, couldn't, answer him although she seethed inside with a jumbled mass of emotions. She felt like screaming and howling out her fury, but they were obviously going to be civilised and grown-up. At least, Neil was. Water under the bridge, brush it under the carpet, hide it under so many stones that it'll never see the light of day.

He yawned and pushed himself off the kitchen counter. 'I'm going to bed. Coming?'

'No. I'm going to stay here for a bit. I just can't take it in properly,' she said, putting her hand over her eyes.

Neil touched her hair. 'I'm sorry,' he said awkwardly. 'Perhaps I should have told you before. But there never seemed a good time. And I thought you were better off for not knowing.' He patted her shoulder.

'Not knowing,' she echoed. 'Not knowing. Being protected from the truth. If we all pretend nothing has happened, we can go on as before. Is that what you really think?'

But he had gone.

 

- ooo -

 

'It's funny,' she said to Adam on her last day at the shop. 'People are always trying to protect me from the truth, which makes it twice as painful when I find out.'

'Honesty is the best policy, or so they say,' Adam said, raising an eyebrow at her. 'What's brought this on?'

'Oh, Neil's been telling me some things.' And we're pretending they haven't happened, she thought, her head aching.

'Home truths?'

'Mmm.' She stretched her arms out. 'I feel I could sleep for a week.'

Adam looked sideways at her, but he didn't ask any more. It was one of the things that she liked about the shop, the conversations punctuated with dealing with customers, and working with Adam who never pried, never pushed her into saying things.

Instead he said, 'Have you decided if you're coming back? Maria's been in touch to let me know she's giving up work for the moment. We're closed until New Year, then Angela's coming back. I'll need someone else.'

'What are you doing for Christmas, Adam?' she said suddenly. She had a vision of him sitting alone in the flat above the shop. She'd never been in it, but she guessed it was modem and minimal, like his office. Very chic, but a cold place to spend Christmas.

'Big family gathering. My mother likes to go the whole hog so it's very traditional, extended family, lots of friends, lots of food, that sort of thing.'

'It sounds wonderful,' Isabel said, adjusting her mental picture from Adam, home alone with a small glass of sherry, to Adam at the centre of a maelstrom of affectionate family life. It certainly sounded better than Moira and Ian, Heather and her husband, and competitive mince-pie making, which was what her Christmas was going to be. 'I never had that sort of Christmas, being an only child.'

She served a desperate-looking man with a stack of books, obviously his last-minute Christmas shopping. When she'd finished she said, 'I always wanted to give my children a traditional family Christmas, in their own home with lots of friends as well as family. I thought that maybe we'd do it this year, but things haven't worked out like that.'

'I don't have children, so perhaps I shouldn't say this,' Adam said slowly, 'but I think you have to be careful about giving children the things you wanted as a child, rather than what they actually want.'

He moved away to help a customer with a query. Isabel thought about what he'd said. Was she trying to give the children what she'd wanted rather than what they wanted? But surely all children wanted a stable home, with both parents together. The shop filled with customers rushing to buy books, whether as gifts or to keep them occupied over the holidays. They were busy until half an hour before closing when the crowds thinned, leaving only a few browsers.

'You still haven't answered my question,' Adam said. 'Are you coming back? And if so, when?'

'I'm sorry,' Isabel said. 'I should have told you before. Yes, I'd love to come back in the New Year, once term starts again.'

'Great,' Adam said. He looked delighted.

'I didn't realise it meant so much to you,' she said, embarrassed and pleased at the same time, trying to make a joke of it.

'I usually take several weeks off in February to go abroad. I couldn't if it was just Angela on her own.'

Which left Isabel feeling curiously deflated.

Adam finally ushered out the last customers, unlocking the door to let them go, and turned the shop sign to closed. Isabel put on her coat and scarf, and gathered up her bag.

'Here.' He handed her a brown envelope. 'Wages.'

'Thanks.' She'd thought about getting him a present, but had decided against it. He was her employer, after all, and she'd hardly known him very long. Only a few weeks. He unlocked the door for her, then bent and kissed her cheek.

'Happy Christmas,' he said.

'And to you.' She fiddled with the strap of her bag. 'And thank you. I'm glad it's not going to be goodbye.'

'Me too.' He frowned. 'You won't forget about applying to university, will you? It would be a shame to miss the deadline.'

'It's waited nearly twenty years; it'll wait another year.'

'That's what I used to say on the trading floor,' he said. 'I'll get out next year. I stayed too long and it broke me.' He touched a strand of her hair. 'Don't let it happen to you.' Isabel looked at him, his grey eyes clear and direct. She opened her mouth to speak, but he broke the contact.

'Go on, get on with you. I'm freezing to death here.' She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. 'Bye Adam. Happy Christmas.'

 

- ooo -

 

As far as Isabel could see, Michael and Katie had a good Christmas, although Isabel thought none of the adults enjoyed themselves. Isabel found Heather prickly at the best of times, but her new status as incipient mother had left her nerves raw. Anything and everything was construed as criticism. A stolen mouthful of sherry trifle was seen as an accusation of abusing her unborn child, although all her mother had said was 'I'm surprised to see you eating that, Heather.'

Moira grumbled about Ian's health, Ian grumbled about indigestion, which Moira then assumed to be the early stages of heart failure. Heather's husband spent a lot of time staring out of the window at the bleak granite landscape. Neil shut down completely, emerging from the latest paperback only at mealtimes or to watch an action adventure film on the television. Moira pursed her lips at his rudeness, but said nothing.

Isabel spent much of her time wrapped in layers of coats while she supervised Michael and Katie playing with Buster in the garden. She told herself they needed supervision because the garden ended in a river, which at this time of year was fast-flowing and swollen with rain, but she really wanted to be close to them, to make sure they were happy. And the sharp, clear air, however cold, was preferable to the acrimonious fug that swathed the interior of the house like ghostly Christmas swags. She found herself almost liking Buster, who was always keen for a game of football, never tired of being taken for walks and hardly ever nipped. In a rash moment she found herself promising to consider getting a puppy.

'A puppy would be fun for the children,' she said to Neil.

And what happens to it if we go abroad?'

'But we're not going abroad again, are we?' she said.

Neil stroked his moustache. 'It might be for the best,' he said. 'A new start for us, where no one knows our history.' Isabel blushed, knowing he meant the photographs.

'And I'd rather be back in the field. This commuting...' He shook his head. 'It's bad now, and it's only going to get worse.'

'But we've settled back in the UK. We can't move again.' Isabel was surprised at how horrified she felt.

Neil shrugged. 'I don't think the children mind that much about moving from house to house, to be honest. Lots of families are in the same situation, ex-pats, service people. I don't think the children mind as much as you do.'

'What about my job? And going to college?'

'A poxy little job in a bookshop?' Neil laughed. 'I hardly think that matters. And as for going to college, if you really want to, you can always get a degree through the Open University.'

Isabel clenched her fists in an effort to control her temper at his patronising attitude. 'Have you applied for a posting?'

'Keep your voice down, I don't want everybody in the house to hear.' But he wouldn't look at her.

'Neil, have you applied?'

'I've put out feelers,' was all he would say.

Isabel sat on the soggy bench in the garden, sightlessly watching the children play with Buster. Whatever Neil said or did, she couldn't, wouldn't, give up her plans so easily a second time.

 

- ooo -

 

When they got back home, before she did anything else, even before putting a load of clothes in the washing machine, she dug out the university application forms and filled them in. She'd already discussed with Adam what her personal statement should consist of and now her pen sped along, black ink delineating her longing for change. She put down as references Mary Wright and Adam Rockcliffe.

She didn't tell Neil she'd sent the forms off.

On New Year's Eve Neil opened a bottle of champagne and Isabel cooked a special meal, but their hearts weren't in it and the bottle was left half-full. They went to bed well before midnight. Sex ensued, a furtive coupling in the dark, mercifully quick. Start the new year with a bang, thought Isabel, lying awake on her side of the bed.

The only bright spot was starting work again. Angela was back, a woman in her mid-fifties, Isabel guessed, with neatly permed hair and doleful eyes as if she expected the world to overlook her. Because Angela was there, Adam spent more of his time downstairs in the office, leaving Isabel to learn about Angela's husband's arthritis, her mother's senile dementia, her father's stroke, her sister's hysterectomy and the vast number of debilitating ailments suffered by her family. In the younger generation there were teenage mothers, multiple fathers, drug abuse, long-term unemployment, all recounted in tones of quiet acceptance. Isabel felt that just by knowing Angela she was statistically unlikely ever to suffer from disease, disability or anti-social behaviour, as Angela had cornered the market in personal disaster.

Adam went a few weeks later: first to Prague, then to stay with friends who'd left the City to run a ski chalet in Switzerland. He said he'd be gone for at least four weeks. It was strange being in the bookshop without him. Angela was nominally in charge as the more senior of the two women but as she fussed and fretted over the smallest of decisions, it was Isabel who suggested what they should do.

'I wish Adam was here,' Angela would complain. 'It's not the same when he goes away.'

Isabel made a non-committal answer, unwilling to admit to herself how different it was when Adam was away, how much she missed his reassuring presence. Angela loved talking about Adam, and was full of information about his past. Isabel tried to tell herself that she listened to gossip about Adam because it was preferable to the stream of diseased relatives, but it was curiously irresistible to learn that he'd been married briefly to someone in the City and had had a few relationships in Milbridge, although he'd steadfastly resisted the advances of Angela's niece, the one with forty-six piercings, including three 'down there' as Angela referred to it.

Isabel was turned down outright by two of the universities she'd applied to, but the third, the former FE college in Fordingbury, asked her to come for an interview, bringing essay samples.

'Essays!' Isabel wailed. 'I haven't done an essay for years.'

'If only Adam was here,' Angela said. 'He'd know what to do.'

'Well he's not,' Isabel said, more sharply then she'd intended. How on earth was she going to find some essay samples? She could hardly resurrect her old A level schoolbooks. She couldn't run to Adam for help and she wouldn't ask Neil. She thought for a few minutes, then laughed. 'I'm so stupid,' she said. 'Here I am standing in the middle of a bookshop. There must be at least one book on essay guidelines.'

She checked and, sure enough, there were several study guides.

That evening, after the children had been settled down, supper had been cooked and eaten, the dishwasher stacked, she started to have a go at writing an essay on Carol Ann Duffy at the kitchen table. It was ages since she had tried to do anything like that, and she wasn't convinced she had been any good at it when she was doing her A levels. But this time, she seemed to understand better.

Neil came in and sat down at the other side of the table.

'What are you doing?'

'Writing an essay,' she said, not looking up.

'What for?'

'I've got an interview.'

'What for?'

'I told you. A place at college.'

'I didn't think you were serious.'

She took a deep breath, about to explain why it mattered to her, then decided against it. 'Well, I am.'

'That's a pity.'

'Why?'

'I've been offered a posting to Ghana.'

She looked up at him then. 'Ghana?' Isabel said. 'We're not going to Ghana.'

'Why not?' Neil said. 'It's stable, reasonably safe, and there's a good-sized ex-pat community.'

'Because we've just moved here. What about schools?'

'There's an international school in Accra.' He scratched his ear.

'You know as well as I do that most of the boys will be sent to boarding school back home. If it's anything like Damascus or Muscat, there'd probably be only one or two boys in Michael's year, and I don't want that for him.'

'No reason why he shouldn't board.'

Isabel stared at him, open-mouthed. 'Board? Are you joking?'

'No. There's that school down the road, the one George and Helen send their boy to. It gets good results.'

'Absolutely not.' She shook her head, horrified at the idea. 'And what about my course? I might be starting a degree in September.'

'You can postpone it. Or do something else.' He spoke as if it was of no importance and the accumulated anger of the past few months swept over her.

'No,' she said. 'No. I'm not postponing it. I've postponed enough. 'I'm not your property, trailing after you found the world. And nor are the children. It's unfair to expect them suddenly to up sticks and go to Ghana when for the first time they've got their own rooms in their own house.' She was breathless with defiance.

'And you expect me to sacrifice myself simply for the children to have their own bedrooms? I hate commuting, and I don't intend to carry on. I'm going to Ghana.'

Isabel looked at him. He was sticking his neck out in an aggressive manner, and she noticed how the skin round his neck had started to crease and wrinkle up like a tortoise. He resembled his father, laying down the rules, believing his loud voice would convince. She thought of Moira, freezing meals that no one wanted to eat, taking out frustration in petty vendettas. Then George and Helen, her personality drowned by the acceptance of his authority. She thought of the children, of Michael being sent away to board, of Katie being moved away from her friends yet again, brought up in a home of wintry politeness.

'Well? Are you coming with me or not?'

She was quite calm when she spoke. 'Not.'