A Rural Affair (25 page)

‘Well, no, I –’ I reddened.

He grinned. ‘It’s all right, everyone’s a bit fazed by it. My dad was a concert pianist. He taught me.’

‘Oh! How amazing.’

‘Yeah, amazing but not very lucrative. Only the really brilliant guys get to the Wigmore Hall. My dad was more Hackney town
hall. When times got really tough he started playing in hotel foyers. South of France, mostly.’

‘Which is where your mum lives,’ I said in surprise. ‘Didn’t you say she lived in a hotel in Monte Carlo?’

‘Er, yes, although she sort of works there too. When Dad died she got a job on reception. Been there ever since.’

‘Oh. Right.’

As I drank my coffee it occurred to me that Luke put quite a gloss on what hadn’t been the easiest of rides. Pulling the wool,
some might say. I wondered if the sister at
Vogue
was
on reception too. But I decided I rather liked him for bigging it up; for not turning his life into a hard-luck story, an
excuse to hang failure on.

When we said goodnight in the car park, there was just a chaste kiss on the cheek, no lingering, and no expectation of coffee
back at my place either. Although he did express a desire to see me again a few days hence.

‘Would you have supper with me again, Poppy? Or maybe we could go and see a film.
Avatar
is supposed to be good.’

It seemed to me that twice in one week might reasonably be construed as Going Out With. Did I want that? I mean, the occasional
one-off supper was nice, but did I want to go out with Luke? Fun though he was?

‘That sounds lovely, but can I ring you? I haven’t got my diary and obviously I need to get a sitter.’

‘Or I could ring you?’

‘You could,’ I hedged, ‘but I’m usually so preoccupied with the kids. I’ll ring you.’

And there we left it. Off he went to his car, rather a smart BMW, I noticed, casting me a last smile over his shoulder, and
off I went to mine.

Interesting, I thought, as I drove home; that blatant attempt, not to seduce me, but to romance me. It was rather refreshing.
No pressure. It smacked of doing things by the book. Dinner, a chaste kiss, then another date, then perhaps coffee, then another
date, and only then, perhaps, a grapple on the sofa. And he’d made me laugh too. Even though I hadn’t been in the mood, he’d
brought me out of myself. Added to which there was that rather sweet admission during supper, which had disarmed me. Why then,
hadn’t I agreed to another date? Thought twice?

Because you think too much, I told myself wearily as
I pulled up outside my house a few minutes later. I sat there a moment. Jennie would agree. Jennie, who’d be disappointed
in me, I thought guiltily, glancing at her front door. For not jumping at it, not giving him a chance.

‘Just give him a chance!’ I could hear her squeal, almost through the party wall. ‘You don’t have to marry him!’

I knew myself too well, though; knew I found someone else’s ardour very attractive, even if it wasn’t mine. Knew I found vulnerability
and little admissions like that hard to resist. So, to that end, self-protection worked best for me. In order to prevent myself
falling for a charm offensive, I just wouldn’t expose myself to it. Simple.

I was about to get out of the car, when I sank back in my seat. Stared ahead through the windscreen into the night. Self-protection.
Was that the same as not wanting to see the truth? Not wanting to know the truth? Had there been moments in my married life
when I’d been deliberately blind? It was a question I’d asked myself a lot lately. And the answer was always no. I’d never
had an inkling about her. There were definitely occasions when, even in the privacy of my own head, I’d been dishonest about
certain things – about loving Phil in the early days, for instance – but this was not one of them. She’d come as a bolt from
the blue. Yet she’d played such a huge part in my life. Had been there for four years. I narrowed my eyes into the night.

Suddenly, on an impulse, I put the key in the ignition and started the car again. Without giving myself time to think, I drove
back up the lane. It was early. Ten past eleven. And I’d told Felicity, who was babysitting, twelve. I had time. And no children
to inconvenience me, either. I’d attempted this the other day, but Clemmie had complained, wanting to know why we were sitting
in the road outside someone’s
house, Mummy, and Archie had started grizzling, so with a pounding heart I’d driven away. The heart was still pounding, I
decided, and I knew I should probably turn around now, in that lay-by, go home, but I found myself driving through the next
village. Then up the hill. I sped along the common, wide and spreading but eventually narrowing almost to a verge, where the
houses set behind it were closer to the road. One of which was hers.

I’d found it the other day, a tiny flint cottage, seemingly in the grounds of a bigger one: Meadow Bank Cottage and Meadow
Bank House. It did appear to have its own little walled garden, though, so it could be separate. Anyway, I wasn’t interested
in the set-up, more in the woman inside. Why? Why was I sitting here in the middle of the night, post-date, engine purring,
heart racing, crouched at the wheel like some private detective? Because presumably she’d sat outside mine, I reasoned. And
I felt that to know her was to understand her a bit better. But Phil was dead now. Surely I should move on? Not before something
was silenced, I reasoned. Something inside me wanted to lie down and be quiet, and in some warped way I felt that once that
had happened I could go on dates and not have a sinking feeling in the pit of my tummy, not feel detached. I wanted to be
able to bang my palm on my forehead and say: ah, I
see. Now
I get it.
Now
I can toss those pills away and go out on the town. I wanted to make some sense of the last four years, and, since Phil was
no use to me now, I was left with Emma.

Stupid, I thought later when I’d sat across the road and watched the dark little house for ten minutes, eyes wide like a rabbit’s.
What are you doing, Poppy? Go home and leave the past behind. She’s nothing to you now; get going. Still I sat. It helped,
somehow, that the cottage looked empty and
forlorn. Perhaps she was sitting inside in the dark feeling sad, as I did sometimes? Unable to light the fire, turn on the
lights. More probable, of course, was that she was out. I smiled wryly to myself in the dark. Look at you, Poppy. Look at
what you’ve become. A stalker. And not even stalking a man.

Giving myself a little inward shake I turned the key in the ignition, and reversed with a flourish into a driveway. Then just
as I was about to turn left into the road, a black Mini Cooper swung past me into the little gravel drive opposite. It disappeared
around the back of the flint cottage. It all happened terribly quickly, but not so fast that I didn’t make out the blonde
driver and the briefest glimpse of a male passenger beside her. I sat, frozen. Turned off the engine and slid right down in
my seat, pulling my scarf up over my face. A few seconds later, the downstairs front room of the cottage sprang into light.
Emma came towards me across the room, laughing, head thrown back. She was wearing a tight pink cardigan with lots of silver
chains around her neck, white jeans which showed off her figure, and her face was alight, blonde hair flopping over one eye.
She reached for the curtain cord with one hand and flicked her fringe back in a practised fashion with the other, before turning,
no doubt to the man who’d followed her into the room, as the curtains swished shut.

I sat there as if I’d been shot. Barely breathing. I tried to marshal my thoughts which were spinning like a kaleidoscope.
So Emma had a man. And she definitely had him, there was no doubt about that: no mistaking the body language, the tight clothes,
the flirtatious laugh. And she was looking good too, which surprised me. She’d scrubbed up. Moved on. Stepped right over Phil,
over his grave. For this was not a girl to let the grass grow under her feet, particularly
the grass on a mound. Why was I surprised? Because I’d thought true love would last a bit longer? Because Phil was barely
cold? But perhaps it hadn’t been true love for her. Perhaps she hadn’t been besotted with him. But if not, what had been the
point? Just sex, I supposed. An affair. For four years. I took a deep breath. Exhaled shakily. You really do need to get out
more, Poppy. Need to grow up.

I drove home slowly, trying to work out how I felt before I had to make small talk with my babysitter. It was one in the eye
for Phil, surely? Emma wasn’t exactly beating her breast and rending her hair, so stick that in your pipe, Mr Shilling; nobody’s
mourning you now. I glanced guiltily up to the heavens, feeling bad. Guilt. Another feeling that had ambushed me lately. But
why should
I
feel guilty? Emma should be the one with her life turned upside down, yet she was way ahead of me. No life on hold for her.
Oh no, just the money, please, I thought suddenly. I could see her holding out her hand, clicking her fingers impatiently,
nails freshly painted. Just hand it over. I gripped the steering wheel hard. Yes. Right. We’ll see about that. Had it helped
my resolve, I wondered, seeing that little vignette? D’you know, I believe it had. As I drove up to my house I caught sight
of my reflection in the mirror, caught my own eye, as it were. For some reason it reminded me of Mum. Or … was it the woman
I might have been, had Mum not died? Whoever it was seemed flintier than me. Had more of a glint to her eye. She seemed to
say: find a bit of inner strength, Poppy dear. A bit of steel, hm?

Felicity was just putting my phone down hurriedly when I went into the kitchen. She went pink.

‘Oh, I hope you don’t mind, Poppy. I couldn’t get a signal on my mobile.’

‘Not at all,’ I said, unwinding my scarf and thinking that
every time Felicity babysat I found her on my phone, something that never happened with Frankie.

‘Gosh, I love your bag,’ she gushed in a confident manner. ‘Is it new?’

‘No, I’ve had it for years, but thanks.’

Flattery to ingratiate, I thought uncharitably as I took my coat off. Understandable, of course, in a fifteen-year-old who’s
been found running up my phone bill. She flicked back her long tawny hair as she crossed the room to retrieve her bag from
the table, just as Emma had crossed the room to the window and swept back her fringe. Some girls knew the way forward, didn’t
they? Had the
savoir faire
, the pretty learned manners. Did I want Clemmie to flick back her hair with a jewelled hand? I wasn’t sure. I tailed Felicity
thoughtfully down the hall to the door.

‘Have you seen anything of Frankie, now you’re back?’ I asked. The girls had been at the village school together.

‘Frankie?’ She turned at the door. ‘Um, no, I haven’t. I must get in touch with her.’

Somehow I knew she wouldn’t. Since she’d gone to boarding school, Felicity’s social path had been very different to Frankie’s.
Not her fault, of course, but a shame, when they’d been close.

‘But it’s nice she’s got a boyfriend, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Frankie? I didn’t know.’

‘Oh. Well, I may have got that wrong. Maybe don’t say anything to Jennie? Just in case?’

In case of what, I thought, nevertheless agreeing as I closed the door behind her. In case he didn’t exist? Or in case he
wasn’t suitable? The latter, probably. I did hope Frankie hadn’t been serious about flirting with the teachers at school.
Don’t be ridiculous, Poppy. Nevertheless I couldn’t help
thinking that if it was just a sixteen-year-old boy, why hide it? Why wasn’t Jennie up to speed? I went back to the kitchen
to turn out the lights. Perhaps she was and didn’t want to share with me. Recently Jennie had become more secretive, and I
respected that. We couldn’t know everything about our friends, could we? If we did, where would it end? Laying bare the contents
of our heads and hearts and saying: here, take a gander at that? Imagine the shock on their faces.

The following morning, on my way to the village shop with the children, I felt perkier. On a scale of one to ten – always
my acid test – I was five, rather than four. It was a beautiful blue-sky morning, so perhaps that helped, and being late in
the year, long dramatic shadows were cast at my feet as I walked across the green. Trees mostly, but also the shadow of a
man, right behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. Odd Bob, dressed uncharacteristically in a tweed jacket and tie, appeared
to be tailing me. I turned. Stopped.

‘Hi, Bob.’

How bizarre. He appeared to have a buttonhole. A little white carnation in his lapel. He beamed. Caught up with me.

‘Hello, Poppy. How are you?’

‘Fine, thanks. You look very smart.’

‘Oh, you know. Thought it was about time.’

For what, I wondered as we continued to the shop together.

‘Um, Poppy. I wondered if you’d have dinner with me next week.’

I stared. Couldn’t believe my ears. Odd Bob? Jacket and tie? Outside the village shop?

‘Sorry?’

‘Yes, I thought maybe we could go to the King’s Head. How about Saturday?’

I blinked rapidly. Found my voice.

‘Well, that’s very kind, Bob, but I’m afraid I’m busy on Saturday.’

‘Sunday?’

Sunday wasn’t a natural night for a date, but Bob, minus a social compass, wasn’t to know that. I knew if I refused he’d say,
‘Monday?’ And so on until Christmas.

‘I’m afraid I’m not really ready to go out yet,’ I said, more kindly.

‘Really? You look fine. Just brush your hair, or something.’

I swallowed. ‘No, I don’t mean … sartorially. I mean, because my husband’s just died.’

Disingenuous, of course. And Bob was on it like lightning.

‘So how come you were ready last night?’

None of the usual codes and conventions to let him down gently would be of any use; it was like dealing with a child. Out
of the corner of my eye I noticed the usual posse of mothers who loitered outside the shop with their babies in buggies after
buying milk and papers. They’d ceased their chatter and were listening avidly, amused.