A Class Apart (60 page)

So now she knew who the other woman was. All she needed to find out was her name. But it would make no difference whether she knew or not. In some ways she preferred not to, but something inside pushed her, until finally, despite the other voice that screamed out to her not to ask, she said: “Have you got anyone in mind?”

He put his fork down and picked up his wine. The tremble of his hand was almost indiscernible, but it did not escape her. So she had been right. Whoever the other woman was, she was to play the Queen of Cornwall. And whoever she was, she was going to be a part of his life for quite some time to come. Perhaps, for the rest of his life.

“Did you read about John Hart in the paper today?” she asked, suddenly.

Bob looked at her in surprise, and he knew by the look on her face that she knew.

He put his glass down. “No,” he said wearily, shaking his head. He wondered how long this pretence could go on. And for God’s sake, why did his plate never seem to get any emptier? “No,” he repeated. “What did it say?”

“It seems that he’s been rather a naughty boy. Something to do with the accounts at his firm, but there were no details.”

“I didn’t know John had hit upon hard times,” said Bob.

“Neither did I. Still, we don’t know if it’s true yet.”

“Perhaps I should give him a call. After all, he’s done enough favours for me in the past. Maybe I could help him out.”

“That would be nice,” said Linda. “I’m sure he’d appreciate it. I tried to ring Janice, his wife, today, but there was no reply. I should think the scandal will hit her very hard. You know what a stickler she is for doing things right. And now to have her entire life spread across the pages of some rag, it must be awful for her.”

“Yes,” he said, “it must.” And he looked at her and wondered how she would cope when her whole life was spread across the pages of some rag, which, there was no doubt, it would be. And that was another thing he had never really considered. That he and Ellamarie would hit the headlines he had never doubted, but he had never considered Linda, what it might do to her. Being pestered every day by lurking reporters, having photographers springing out of the bushes every time she took a ride. Her life would be plagued by a bunch of unscrupulous hacks.

Jesus Christ! It was no good. Everything they said had double meanings. They had known one another too long to go on pretending like this.

He pushed his plate away. “I can’t eat any more.”

“Me neither,” she said, and put her knife and fork down.

“I think we should talk, Linda. Can we go and sit down?”

The panic rushed at her with such force that she couldn’t speak. He was going to tell her now. He was going to say that he didn’t love her any more, and that he was going to leave her. She must stop him from speaking. She must speak first.

She followed him into the sitting room, and went to sit in the big armchair beside the fire. He was sitting in the other chair, looking into the flames. She topped up his glass from the bottle she had brought with her, and then leaned back in the chair.

“Bob . . .”

“Linda . . .”

They had spoken at the same time.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No,” she said.

He knew she was looking at him but he couldn’t meet her eyes. “Linda, there’s something I have to tell you. This won’t be easy, but I have to say it.”

“No, don’t,” she whispered, “please don’t say it. Not yet. I don’t think I can take it.”

He shook his head sadly, and watched her as she twisted the strands of loose hair around her fingers.

“Can I say something first?” she said.

He nodded.

She gulped at her wine, and he heard her swallow. Again her fingers were tugging at the loose hair, as she fought to keep control. “I know what you’re going to say, Bob. I’ve known for some time. I don’t want you to think I blame you. As a matter of fact, I don’t blame you at all. I could have tried harder. I know that now, but you always know those things when it’s too late. But I want you to know that I still love you, and that if ever you change your mind, I will be here. And I will wait for you, Bob. I will pray each night that you will come back to me. But seeing the pain you’re in, seeing your eyes each time you look at me, and knowing that you’re seeing her, feeling your hands, whenever you touch me, and knowing that you are thinking of her, well, I know that it can’t go on any longer. I know that I have lost you, and that it’s not me that you love any more. I wish to God that I could turn back the clock, but it’s too late now. And I wanted to make you happy, believe me, I so wanted to make you happy. But in the end I failed. And I don’t blame you. I will never blame you. I only hope that she can make you happy, my darling.”

Bob pressed his fingers to his eyes, and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” he choked. “Oh God, I’m sorry.” He reached out for her hand and looked into her face. “I don’t want you to think that I wasn’t happy, because I was. I don’t want to leave you, believe me, I don’t want to leave you. But I have to. Please don’t ask me to explain, but I have to go. And I still love you. That’s what hurts more than anything, I still love you. And to know that you still love me, despite everything I have done, well, I . . . God, if you only knew how much I shall miss you. But it doesn’t help to say it, does it?”

She shook her head, and looked up to the ceiling. He heard her sob, but he couldn’t look at her.

“Do you love her?”

“I won’t lie to you,” he said, “not any more . . .”

“No, don’t say it. I don’t think I could stand it.”

“No.”

For a long time they said nothing. She wanted to ask him when he would go, but she couldn’t. There were so many things she wanted to ask him, but the words just wouldn’t come. Any minute now he would get up from the chair, and he would never sit there again. For a long time to come, she would look at that chair, and think of him, and torture herself with what he might be doing now. Every Friday she would listen for his key in the door. And every time she left the house, she would come back praying that when she turned the corner, his car would be waiting outside. And at night she would think of them together, and wonder if he laughed at all, or if he thought of her at all.

Finally he took a deep breath, and she looked over at him. He looked so tired, and so unhappy, but she could offer him no comfort. He shook his head. “If only you knew. If only you knew how different all this might have been. If only you hadn’t come to the theatre the night you did.”

“So many if onlys.”

“Yes, so many. And now it’s too late.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she put her hands to her face to stem the flow of tears. “I know I shouldn’t do this to you, Bob, I know it won’t change anything, and you won’t stop loving her. But, please, say that you will never regret the night I came to the theatre. Please.”

He looked at her, the question in his eyes.

“Just say it, please.”

“I can’t,” he said. “If you knew the truth, you would know that I can’t.”

“Oh Bob,” she sobbed. “If you knew the truth, you would never have said that.”

“The truth? What truth?”

She looked down into her lap, and fiddled with the stem of her glass. “Nothing. Please, forget I said it,” and the pain and sadness in her voice hurt him more than anything throughout all this had hurt him. And he knew, now that it came right down to it, that he truly loved his wife. It was her whom he wanted to be with, for ever. But now it could never be.

He stood up. “I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight.”

She looked up at him, and he thought if she asked him to go to her, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. But she didn’t speak.

He walked across to the door. “Linda,” he said, not turning to look at her. “I’m sorry. You’ll never know how sorry I am,” and pulling the door open, he left.

The following morning, just before six, Linda went upstairs to change. She had sat in the chair all night, unable to face their bed alone, knowing that he was in the next room. She had slept fitfully, but that was almost worse than not sleeping at all. Each time she woke, and found herself fully clothed, sitting in the chair, she would remember, and wave after wave of despair would come over her, until finally she could not bear to sit there any longer.

She pulled her jodhpurs and riding boots from the cupboard and, slipping out of her dress, she put them on. She knew it would be painful for her, to go out riding this morning, across the fields that they had ridden together, but she had to get out. She had to be with her horse, feel him nuzzle her neck, and put her arms round him.

When she got outside, she almost turned back again. The sun was so bright, it was going to be a lovely day. Nature did not share her grief. But she walked on; Barry had already saddled her beloved Petruchio. She took the reins from him, and led the horse out of the yard.

As she jumped onto his back, she didn’t turn round. If she had she might have seen Bob, standing at the window, watching her. But she would not have seen the sorrow in his eyes, nor the tears on his cheeks. He watched her until she was out of sight, then turned away. He went into their bedroom and opened the drawers that contained his clothes. He stared at them for a long time, unable to bring himself to touch them.

Finally he sat down heavily on the bed and tried to think. But he was so confused that one thought ran into another, until his mind was spinning so relentlessly he lay down, and closed his eyes.

He must have fallen asleep; it was almost eight o’clock when he looked up again. He walked over to the window. No one was in sight. She was probably giving him time to go, and didn’t want to be here when he did.

He picked up the phone and dialled. It rang several times at the other end, and then he heard his mother’s voice saying hello.

“Mother, it’s Bob.”

“How are you, dear?”

“Fine. No, that’s a lie. I’m not fine.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, and the way she said it surprised him.

“There’s something I have to tell you, Mother.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I should come and see you.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But I’d rather you told me now.”

There was a silence on the line, but she knew he was still there, so she waited.

“It’s about Linda,” he said. “Linda and me.”

He heard his mother give a long and drawn-out sigh. “So, you’ve told her.”

So his mother had known too. He wondered how long she had known.

“How did she take it?” Violet asked, when it seemed that he wasn’t going to answer.

“Not very well.”

“Where is she now?”

“Riding.”

“I see. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

“No, but I have to do it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to explain, Mother, just believe me, I have to.”

“Do you love this other woman?”

He hesitated. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“And what about Linda? Do you love her?”

“Yes. Probably more than I realised. But there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

“That sounds as though you’ve been trapped.”

“It’s not quite like that.”

“Well, I don’t want to know the details, but would I be right in thinking that, given the choice, you wouldn’t leave Linda?”

There was a long silence.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” he said, “I’m still here.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I can’t answer it. It’s too late now. It’s gone too far.”

He heard his mother sigh again. “Sit down, Bob, if you’re not already. I think it’s time that you and I had a long chat.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Heather gave a delighted squeal and disappeared behind a tree. Jenneen went running after her, and the child screamed as Jenneen popped her head round, and whispered “Boo!”

“Your turn to find me now,” said Jenneen. “Cover your eyes, and this time count right up to ten.”

The little girl covered her face with her hands. “One, two, three . . .” The chubby fingers parted.

“You’re cheating again!” Jenneen cried. “You’re not allowed to look.”

Heather giggled, and pressed her face up against the tree. “One, two, three,” she began again.

Jenneen ran behind the summer house, and crept in under the hedge.

“. . . nine, ten. Coming, ready or not!” Heather shouted, and ran in pursuit.

Vicky stood at the door of her parents’ old farmhouse, smiling as she watched Jenneen playing with, her young cousin in the garden. They had arrived on Friday evening. Jenneen had been so tired, it had been an effort for her to drag herself up to bed. And now, here she was, two days later, full of life, and ready to face the world again. Well, perhaps not the whole world, but certainly Vicky’s family.

Her cousin Paul and his wife had arrived unexpectedly that morning, declaring that they were staying for three days, en route to Cornwall. His aunt had been delighted to see them. Vicky had sensed an atmosphere when Jenneen first saw Paul, and guessed that he had probably been one of Jenneen’s conquests in the past. Most likely the night of Robert Blackwell’s party. Vicky set about trying to put them both at their ease, and Paul’s wife was such a vague woman, she probably wouldn’t have noticed if Jenneen had tried to repeat the performance in front of her. But she was a friendly woman, and talked to Jenneen, asking her all about herself and her family, and wanting to know everything about her life in television. Jenneen warmed to her immediately. Who wouldn’t when she was such an ardent fan?