A Matter of Marriage (30 page)

Marriage, even the kind he had envisaged in the past as tolerable—a traditional wife kept at his parents' to look after them as they aged, and whom he would visit occasionally—seemed unbearable, impossible, now. He thought of that woman, Henry's wife, whom he'd met at that
gora
dinner party last Sunday. Look what happened when a wife wasn't satisfied by her husband. And Henry wasn't even gay.

He would go for a wander, see if he could find Denny. The woody area just upriver was where Denny liked to chill out, or hide from Colin. Before setting off he shaded his eyes and scanned the area around and behind him, looking for anything unusual, any activity, then realized what he'd been doing and smiled wryly. Soldier Tariq. Just went to show, some things did sink in.

As soon as he was within the first group of pines, he saw Denny lying in a clearing, messing with his penny whistle, a joint drooping from his lip. He was wearing grubby Indian pants and a leopard-print T-shirt that had seen better days.

Denny raised a lazy arm in greeting. “Hey, man. Hot, innit?”

“Yeah.” Tariq squatted next to him, picked up a twig with a pine cone attached and rolled it between his fingers.

“How about a dip? Me dad's asleep in the greenhouse.”

Tariq glanced at the water, cool and dark under the pines. Why not.

T
HEA STARED INTO
the mirror in her ensuite, searching for what was still desirable. Or at least fixable. She avoided the softness at her jawline, the beginnings of pigmentation under her eyes, and focused instead on dark eyebrows winging back to smooth temples. But there the grey was just beginning to show—she must make an appointment.

Her hair was wound and pinned into a tight shiny knot at her nape, controlled with a mist of spray. Her lips, primed and glossed, gleamed symmetrically—mustn't overdo it, we're not in London. Thea didn't look into her eyes, tried to concentrate on detail: mascara, eyeliner, eyeshadow. Did her eyelids look crêpey, overdone? Perhaps . . . no. It would take too long to go back to scratch, deal with her naked face again.

Pip had had her face done already, at only forty, and her breasts. But she was divorced, children off her hands, making a fresh start. Thea slid on her wedding band. So plain: it had been Henry's mother's, and she'd never liked it. It almost disappeared when she put on the emerald-cut engagement diamond that she'd chosen, its surrounding brilliants sparkling under the bathroom's halogen. The Cartier ring, from her family, so classic with its three bands of silver, gold and rose gold, went onto the first finger of her other hand. Then a single strand of pearls, to throw light onto the face, give textural contrast with her cream linen sheath, and hide loose skin at the neck.

She rolled one fat sphere between finger and thumb. But then she saw the back of her hand in the mirror, its greyish web of veins and scattering of age spots (
fleurs de la mort
, her half-French nonna used to call them) and the bones of her wrist, all highlighted by the necklace's silky, nacreous glow.

Thea met her reflected eyes, filled with dread. She flicked off the overhead halogens, but now, underlit by the sidebar fluorescents, her head looked hollowed and empty. She mustn't be late for her brunch date: so late already, so much time wasted. With an effort she shifted her gaze to the mirror's edge. Her favorite photo of Jackie was there, a black-and-white two-inch square tucked into a corner of the mirror's bevelled frame as if casually, so that anyone coming in would see it as a temporary and unimportant thing. Jackie O, Jacqueline Onassis, formerly Kennedy, nee Bouvier. Guinevere to Jack's Arthur, the perfect fairytale, then disaster and death and finally betrayal with the ugly, successful foreigner, the Greek Lancelot. Onassis's Beast to her Beauty.

Thea picked up the photo and brought it close, tilting the image into and out of the fluorescents' glare. It was a candid head-and-shoulders shot, the background blurred, as if the photographer had been running to keep pace with Jacqueline Kennedy's rapid shining star. She was gazing beyond the camera, her hair blown about and her collar slightly awry, but her expression was serene, unmoved. Carefree, in Givenchy, Chanel, Cassini. Unworldly, despite the worldliness, the infidelity and publicity. Centered calmly in the storm's eye. Immortal, eternal.

Thea's eyes flicked back to her own reflection: the constructed, expensive, temporary perfection of her hair and face, tissue-thin over the deterioration beneath—lines pouching, darkening. And the wreckage within.

Right now she couldn't bear to leave this room. Henry used the family bathroom, thank god. Resolutely avoiding her reflection, she turned toward the glass shelving that bisected one wall and ran a fingertip over its precious bottles, casks and jars. The best of everything was in here: La Mer for smooth skin, Visine for clear eye-whites, Chanel primer and lipstick for the full, unlined mouth of the twenty-year-old. Forever young, if she stayed in here.

If she stepped out she would see her bedroom, where last Sunday night, stinking of alcohol and vomit, she had fallen into Tariq's arms, thought that he was falling into hers. She shuddered, remembering her hungry grasping, his detachment and disgust. How could she leave? Where could she go?

She realized that she was gripping Jackie's photo with both hands, and made herself put it down before it creased or tore. Why hadn't she arranged to go to the beautician instead of brunch with the girls? She just wanted to be out of the house before Richard got up. She'd claimed a headache last night, gone to bed early to avoid the pain of his arrival, but then could not sleep. He'd let himself in late, must have been after one a.m, fresh evidence of his lack of interest in her, and had apparently declined Henry's scheme of shopping with the boys, in favor of a lie-in. But he would be up soon.

Hiding behind Elizabeth Arden's Red Door Spa, face masked, eyes closed, seemed infinitely more appealing than faux jollity with her friends. Too late now, she just had to make the best of it. Get out of here. She smoothed her hair, smoothed it again. Now it looked too smooth. She glanced down at the little photo, thought about wearing dark glasses. But she would feel more naked when she had to take them off. If only she had chosen Red Door. If only Richard hadn't come to visit again so soon—had cancelled like he always used to, given her time to adjust. To heal.

She picked up her handbag, a baby-soft calfskin Hermès, and pulled out the contents, lining them up on the countertop one by one. She must be sure, be prepared. Eyedrops. Tissues, change purse, card holder, keys, blue-eye talisman, photos of the children, perfume (Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche, the fragrance of youth), panty liner (couldn't remember when her period was due, all over the place lately), headache pills (mustn't take too many), phone (what if Richard called), make-up bag: Chanel Rouge Noir lipstick, pressed powder (pure tinted cornstarch from Guerlain), Chanel Morning Dew nail polish, YSL Touche Éclat concealer, so good for older skin. Everyone said so. She zipped up the little make-up bag, stroked its plastic exterior. Eyedrops. Tissues. Change purse. A ticking started in her temples. Time was passing. She had to go.

Her chest hurt; she tried to breathe more slowly. How could she escape without being seen? Jackie's image lay on the countertop, youthfully serene. For a moment their eyes met. Thea snatched it up and reached awkwardly, inside and down her own neckline, to tuck the photo into her left bra cup. A talisman, stuffed into her underwear like Zia used to do with tissues, god help her.

Thea packed the countertop items back into the bag and shuffled quickly out of the bathroom, eyes averted from the bed, and into the passage, down the stairs, out the front door, to the garage, find the car keys. Keys. She felt sick at the thought of having forgotten her keys, and tried to remember to breathe out. There they were, in the bottom of the bag. She fumbled and almost dropped them. What if Richard got up now and saw her like this?

The Mercedes flashed its lights, making her jump, then flashed again. Damn, she'd re-locked it. Her hands shook, and she kept missing the button. In the cement-floored quiet of the garage, she could hear her heart pounding like a warning, counting down, faster and faster. The keys fell to the floor, and she cried out in fright, looking furtively at the garage door, open to anyone. She would never escape, never get out. She bent to grab the keys, but bile rose into her throat, and she hesitated, dropped the Hermès on the floor next to the keys and stumbled outside.

She leaned over, hands on knees, and retched once, one useless violent heave with no result, sweat prickling her back and upper lip, eyes closed against the sun's public glare. Anybody could see her. She couldn't stay here, had to find shelter, privacy.

What was that sound? Was that Henry's car coming back early? God. She took off in a clumsy run around the side of the house, toward the back garden, her heels twisting in the gravel. Her eyes had filled with the effort of trying to vomit, and her vision blurred and stung. No tissues, no bag.

The garden sloped down away from the Lodge, and Thea followed it, weaving sharply between a series of prickly bushes. Hot tears were sliding down her cheeks now, and she placed a hand over her pearls, with some vague recollection that salt water was bad for them.

If Richard got up and found no one at home, he would probably just go down to the pub for lunch. But what if, before he left, he looked out of one of the Lodge's back windows? She must get out of sight. She kept moving, her heels sinking into the turf, following the downhill gradient as the vegetation around her became larger and less cultivated, and weeds whipped and caught at her stockings.

One heel sank deeply, and she tripped forward and almost fell. Her right shoe, handmade, handstitched, a present from Henry, was buried in mud. She bent, breathing hard, and tried to wriggle it out with her fingers. It would not budge. When she looked up, the noisy glitter of the river was right before her, inches from her toes, and she stared uncomprehendingly. She'd never been down this far before, hadn't realized it ran so close. Her way was barred.

But she couldn't stay here. She pulled her foot out of the shoe, which remained staunchly upright in the mire. Stupid fucking shoe, she'd get it later. She turned to her left, took a few more crooked steps along the bank, lost the other shoe, staggered forward, then continued more sedately, her stockinged feet sliding a little in the cool mud and cooler water. Fuck the shoes. The pull of her Achilles tendons from walking flat-footed, and the mud's soft, spreading pressure between her toes, became oddly comforting, as if she had come down here just for this: to get dirty, make mud pies or something. Had there been a river near where she grew up? She couldn't remember.

Thea was still hot and sweaty, but a little calmer and, squinting ahead, could see a patch of dark vegetation. She made her way along the river's edge, feeling like someone marooned, or maybe an explorer. Her legs were beginning to ache, her stomach too, and when she came to one of the larger trees, with a mess of roots forming a natural seat, she squatted awkwardly, sat down and leaned back. She could feel the roughness of the bark through the linen of her dress, but it wasn't really unpleasant, rather like sitting on wickerwork. She stretched her legs out in front of her and saw without surprise that her silk stockings were shredded and filled with grass seeds. Her feet, still heavy with mud, flopped outwards, making a V through which she could see a sunlit patch of river below. She let her hands rest on the ground at her sides.

It was so quiet she could hear her own breathing, rapid and harsh against the shushing of the river. All that time in the gym: she'd thought she'd been keeping up with the twenty-somethings. That dull, tight pain was back. She bent her head, tried to ignore it. She would just focus on the grass seeds, pick out each one.

Soft murmurs came from the river. She looked past her muddy feet to see Tariq's golden body float into view on the surface of the water. He was on his back, eyes closed, and his palms floated with fingers cupped and pointing upward. The bloom of his sex was visible, against a cushion of black hair just below the surface. She gasped. Magical, supernatural. She instinctively gestured with her fist, index and little fingers extended, against the evil eye. But he did not disappear. Or transform.

He had come for her. Thea stumbled to her feet. The power of her desires had brought him into being. But before Tariq reached the bank, there was a splash as another body dived in and surfaced near him. Thea froze. This man was white-skinned but covered in dark body hair. His face was obscured by long, hippyish locks, with a separate stream of water running off each. He tossed his head to free his face, and she saw with shock that it was Denny Upwey, Audrey and Colin's son.

The men reached for each other in the water. Embraced. Kissed. Tariq's fine fingers in Denny's hair. Thea stood still now, like Lot's wife, unable to look away. They broke apart and swam for the far bank. Denny, broader of build, climbed out first, and turned to give Tariq an arm to pull him up. Thea dodged behind the tree and crouched down, feeling such shame and sorrow that it was a relief to bite her tongue and taste the rusted blood, which had surely come straight from her heart.

They were talking now, in low voices. She couldn't make out the words but she could hear the relaxed tone, the staccato breaks of soft laughter. The smell of cigarettes. How fiercely she suddenly longed for one.

Silence fell across the water. She inched forward on all fours, holding her breath, until she could just see round. There, on the opposite side, above the riverbank, was a figure walking stiffly downhill from the cottage, toward them all, carrying what looked like a shiny metal thermos. Dr. Choudhury? She had a desperate urge to pee.

Were they gone? She looked down to the river itself, her vision blurred with sweat and tears. On the far bank, dappled shadows shifted under the trees. Amongst them, shining against the dull earth, she could just make out two bodies mingling. A few small stones and pieces of leaf rubbish rolled down the slope and into the water, and she crept back around her tree, alone again in this hostile natural world.

—

T
HEY HAD LEFT
eventually, laughing and talking quietly, as relaxed as when they had arrived. It was only she that was different. Stiff with fatigue and filthy, Thea crawled out of her hiding place, but her legs were too cramped to stay upright, so she slid on her bottom down the leaf-mould to the edge of the bank, just stopping in time. She grabbed hold of an overhanging branch and edged first her feet, then her legs, into the river. She could smell herself, sweat and urine and mud, and the shock of the cold water made her wet herself again. Her feet found the bottom, oily and soft, and she knew then that she would sink no further. She let go of the branch and stepped away from the bank, hip-deep, trailing her hands. She was suffused with weariness, cried out, completely empty. Nothing mattered anymore.

Thea cupped her hands and brought water up to her face, ran her hands over her hair, let it trickle down the nape of her neck. She bent her knees and dipped down into the water, up to her neck, and pushed off in a cautious, old-lady breaststroke, toward the center of the river.