Me and Mr Jones (33 page)

‘Oh.’ Alicia felt rude for having asked. ‘Sorry. I just assumed . . .’

‘Well, so did I, to be honest. I thought it would be game on. But I don’t think he’s interested.’

Alicia laughed. ‘He’s interested, don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Charlie doesn’t do anything for anyone unless—’ She could have bitten her own tongue off; just stopped herself from saying ‘Unless there’s something in it for him’, which made the arrangement seem tawdry, almost prostitute-like. ‘Unless he really likes someone,’ she said quickly instead.

‘Hmmm,’ said Izzy, and Alicia thought that perhaps she should leave the conversation there.

The night before Alicia’s birthday Hugh and the children went up to wrap presents in the master bedroom – ‘You must
not
come in, Mummy,’ Matilda ordered, eyes gleaming at this role reversal – and she was left sitting idly on the sofa for once, flicking through the newspaper, feet propped up on the coffee table. She felt deliciously spoiled, imagining the children writing loving messages in their cards and carefully wrapping their gifts. Yes, all right, so the chances were they were actually fighting over the Sellotape and dashing off a brief ‘Love X’ in the cards before scurrying back to their far more interesting DS games, but you never knew. Miracles did happen, even in Dorset.

Then the phone rang. Sighing at the interruption – typical! – Alicia heaved herself off the sofa and went to pick it up. ‘Hello?’ she said.

There was an intake of breath down the line, a hesitation . . . and then the connection promptly went dead. ‘Goodbye to you, too,’ Alicia muttered, replacing the receiver on its base and thinking no more of it.

Ten minutes later the same thing happened. Down went the newspaper, and up she rose. ‘Hello?’ she said, this time with an edge to her voice.

Again, there was no answer, just the burr of the dial tone as the other person hung up. She frowned, wondering if it was a prank, teenagers messing about. But no – they were ex-directory, had been ever since she started teaching. Perhaps, then, it was one of the children’s friends calling, struck dumb with shyness when an adult answered. Perhaps it was one of those spam calls that dialled ten numbers at once, and someone else had picked up first. Perhaps it was somebody who didn’t want to speak to her, who’d been hoping a different person would answer . . .

No, she thought, returning briskly to the article she’d been reading about bloodshed in Syria. No more perhapses. It was probably nothing. A fault on the line.

All the same, when the phone rang again and Hugh happened to be back in the room, she gestured towards it. ‘Would you get that, love? Whoever it is keeps hanging up on me.’

Hugh picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Yes?’

Alicia, watching intently, noticed his face change. He flicked a glance over to her, then turned his back, hunching over the receiver.

A feeling of dread gripped Alicia as he left the room. ‘I see,’ she heard him say in a polite, clipped voice. ‘Just a minute.’ And then he was gone, door shut, and she heard no more.

Doubts swirled blackly through her mind. Who was it who wanted to speak to her husband, but not to her? After a few minutes he re-entered the room, running a hand through his hair with what appeared to be faux casualness, and she all but pounced on him.

‘Who was that?’

He didn’t answer immediately, but went over and replaced the handset on its base. ‘It was nothing,’ he said eventually. ‘Just Izzy, wondering what you wanted for your birthday.’

She narrowed her eyes while she processed this information. Well, then, she told herself. That must be it. He wouldn’t lie about something that would be so damn easy for her to check, would he?

‘So that was her earlier, was it, hanging up on me twice when I answered?’ she persisted.

He was flicking through the TV guide, not looking at her. ‘Must have been,’ he said, shrugging. His defensive body language was enough to start warning bells ringing loud and shrill in Alicia’s head.

Something was going on here. She didn’t have a clue what it was, but something was definitely going on. Surely Izzy wouldn’t have hung up, even if she did want to talk in secret to Hugh. If it had been her, planning a mystery present for a friend, she’d at least have said hello to the friend and then asked if she could speak to the husband, rather than rudely hanging up without a word. You would, wouldn’t you?

She stared at Hugh for a few moments, wondering how hard to push him. ‘So did—’ she began, but he was already speaking.

‘Excellent,’ he said, snatching up the remote. ‘
Panorama
’s just about to start.’ And then he was turning on the TV, the title music was blaring and the moment had gone.

Gone but not forgotten. The phone call worried away at Alicia for the rest of the evening. She wondered about ringing Izzy back on some pretext or other, just to check Hugh’s story was right. But that would be as good as saying that she didn’t trust her husband, and of
course
she trusted him. Hugh was nothing if not trustworthy – always had been, always would be. It was one of the things she loved best about him.

Despite being a rational person, a lot of irrational thoughts kept bubbling up in her head, refusing to be popped. She remembered the deceit about his gym visit the weekend before. The frequency of his gym visits in the last month or so. The phone calls he would leave the room to take. Then she thought of Sandra, bitching about ‘boring fucking Penny’, and cringed. What if there was another woman madly in love with Hugh somewhere, moaning about ‘boring fucking Alicia’, just praying that their marriage would fall apart so that she could sweep in victorious to claim him?

No. Of course there wasn’t another woman. She was just being silly. Tomorrow was her birthday, and any secrets would be revealed. Or so she hoped.

The next morning she woke to the sound of three children and a man singing tunelessly at the bottom of the bed. ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Mummy . . .’ (‘Aliciaaaaa,’ sang Hugh), ‘Happy birthday to you!’

‘Breakfast in bed!’ she said, struggling to sit upright as Hugh laid the tray carefully across her lap. ‘Darlings, what a lovely surprise. Thank you!’

‘I picked the flowers,’ Matilda said, hopping from foot to foot. ‘Do you like them?’

‘Oh, forget-me-nots, yes, I love them,’ Alicia said, pulling her in for a kiss. She was glad that someone had pulled some of them up, to be honest; they always went rampant across the flowerbeds at this time of year, a pale-blue army advancing in all directions.

‘Here’s your card, Mum,’ Lucas said, leaping onto the bed and thrusting a yellow envelope under her nose. Goodness, he was getting so big these days, his limbs seeming to lengthen every day.

‘Thank you, love,’ she said, ruffling his shaggy blond hair. (It was so unfair that her boys had such lovely thick mops of hair, whereas Matilda’s was fine and thin and could only make weedy little plaits.)

‘You’ll never guess what I’ve got you,’ Rafferty said, pushing the present at her and almost knocking the flowers into the plate of scrambled eggs.

‘I’d better open it and see, hadn’t I?’ she replied, beaming. ‘I’m sure it’s something lovely.’ She was
forty
, she remembered with a jolt as she took a sip of coffee. This was it – new decade, ta-da!

She waited to pass out with the sheer horror of being so ancient, glanced at her hands to check if some enormous liver spots had sprung up there, patted her face in case it had shrivelled like a walnut overnight. No difference. She didn’t even
feel
different, much to her surprise. In fact, she’d even say that she felt remarkably sanguine about being forty, after all that angst and dread.

So far, so jolly. She had the children beaming at her; flowers, breakfast, presents. Hugh . . . well, she’d think about Hugh later.
So up yours, forty
, she thought, with a burst of energy, ripping open the first card. She wouldn’t let it stop her doing anything.

There was no school that day – still another blissful week of the Easter holidays to go – and Hugh had taken the day off work, so the present-unwrapping was a leisurely, unhurried affair. The children gave her chocolates, a book and a pretty vase between them. Sandra had sent a voucher for a massage and a bottle of perfume. Her parents, who lived on the Costa Brava, had posted a fuchsia-pink sundress (the sort of thing she’d never wear in a million years) and a matching feathery corsage. (Had they turned to mind-bending drugs in their old age? she wondered, as Lucas tried on the corsage, batting his eyelashes and simpering, and the children all fell about laughing.) A pair of dangly silver earrings and floral card had come from Lilian and Eddie, also signed by David and Charlie. Very nice, even if she didn’t have pierced ears. Emma sent champagne and a card that sang ‘Happy Birthday’ when you opened it. There was a card from Izzy too, decorated with felt-tipped hearts and flowers, presumably by the girls. Inside was a message:
Sorry, I haven’t been able to get you a proper present, but I’m making you a cake! Will send Charlie round with it on the big day. Have a brilliant one, you deserve it. Love Isabel.

Alicia smiled, trying to blank out the fact that she was now sure Hugh had lied to her about the mystery phone call.
Don’t go there
, she instructed herself.
Stay in happy birthday mode for a bit longer.
Now there was just one present left, and it was the biggest of them all, wrapped up in pink polka-dotted paper with an enormous white bow on the top.

‘Happy birthday, love,’ said Hugh, bringing it over to the bed. He looked tired, she noticed. Guilty conscience?

‘Thank you,’ she replied, becoming quite excited as she felt how heavy it was. ‘Goodness, whatever is it? It’s huge!’

‘It’s a—’ Matilda started, but her brothers leapt on her at once.

‘Shut up, idiot!’

‘Don’t tell her!’

‘You’ll just have to open it,’ Hugh said. He was smiling, but it was stretched thin, as if he couldn’t keep it on his face for much longer.

Alicia looked away.
Stop it
, she told herself.
Stop doubting him.
Her suspicions were polluting her birthday mood, tainting the happy feelings. But she was convinced he must have lied the night before. Why? What was going on?

She ripped off the wrapping paper . . . to see a large boxed KitchenAid mixer. ‘Oh . . .’ she said, lost for words. ‘How lovely.’

‘It’s just like Nigella’s,’ Hugh said encouragingly. ‘I remember you admiring it on one of her shows.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, although she could remember no such thing. She couldn’t help it – she was disappointed. Was this the big surprise? A bloody food mixer? So that she could spend even more time in the kitchen preparing meals for the ravenous hordes?
Wow, Hugh. You shouldn’t have. Seriously – you shouldn’t have, mate.

She tried not to think what Sandra would say to such a present and found herself wishing, disloyally, that Hugh had tried a bit harder, that he’d actually chosen something that
wasn’t
useful and practical, that didn’t make her feel like a middle-aged housewife. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, trying not to think about glossy handbags or sparkling jewellery. ‘Aren’t I lucky?’

She
was
lucky, she told herself, as she went to run a scented bath. Remember Sandra, remember how upset she’d been, think about her turbulent life and remember that you’re the lucky one who’s got everything she could possibly want.

Other women would have been pleased with their KitchenAid. She
was
pleased with it. But she couldn’t prevent a sinking feeling of dismay that that was all she was to Hugh these days: the little woman in the kitchen, who could be fobbed off with a shiny new contraption. It didn’t seem enough any more.

She found herself thinking about Christine, as she always did on her birthday.
Happy birthday, Chris. Wish you were here. Would you have wanted a KitchenAid?

Later that day the sun obliged by venturing out from behind the clouds, and they had a lovely walk around a nearby National Trust property with a picnic and the football. When they came home they found that Charlie had delivered Izzy’s birthday cake – a fluffy Victoria sponge with edible silver glitter all over the top – and the second rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ probably broke speed records as everyone was so desperate to tuck into a slice.

That evening, Hugh had – shock! – actually arranged a babysitter off his own bat, and – gasp! – booked a restaurant for dinner, and – no way! – ordered a cab to whisk them away at eight o’clock. This was more like it, Alicia thought approvingly as she clip-clopped out to the car in her nicest going-out dress (the scarlet one Sandra had all but forced her to buy from Gloucester Quays during a rare ‘girls’ day out’; the one she should have worn in Paris). Turning forty was all about being more sod-it, she decided, adding more make-up than she usually wore, then slipping on her one and only pair of high heels (terrifying). Yes, sod it, she’d wear scarlet; so what if it drew attention to her belly and bum. Yes, sod it, she’d splash on her new perfume, even though normally she’d eke it out over a whole year, one careful squirt at a time. She’d wear her heels too, even though she was likely to break her ankle or skin her knees, stumbling over in them. And yes, sod it, she’d damn well confront Hugh about what the hell was happening – birthday or no birthday, restaurant or no restaurant. Forty-year-old Alicia Jones wasn’t about to take this lying down any more.

The restaurant Hugh had picked was a good choice, if entirely predictable. She’d celebrated so many birthdays and anniversaries in Axminster’s Grove Bistro that she could reel off the menu in her sleep. It was a small family-run place, with dusty candles rammed into Mateus rosé bottles on the tabletops, a laminated menu littered with spelling mistakes (the ‘samlon fishcakes with tarter sauce’ being Alicia’s particular favourite) and the kind of yellow-varnished wood-panelled bar that wouldn’t have been out of place in a skiing lodge. They were also playing Norah Jones. They
always
played Norah Jones.