Other People's Husbands (10 page)

‘Quick, you mad idiot, let's get out of here before we're arrested,' Sara said. ‘I'm going to get Charlie changed and dry and then I'll meet you outside.' She grabbed the buggy and turned it round, heading for the door.

‘Why? What's the rush?' Conrad asked. ‘At last he's actually enjoying it!' He climbed out of the tank, sending pools of water all over the floor. He looked around for his shoes and put them back on as if what he'd done had been nothing out of the ordinary.

‘No really, Conrad, let's just
go
. I've got lots of spare clothes for him and he needs to get warm again.' Sara almost pushed Conrad through the door and looked for the signs for the loo. She felt scared, as if she'd discovered something alarming and frightening about Conrad. Perhaps she had, she thought. He'd always been a tiny bit off the wall, but was he really beginning to lose his mind? Was laughing at Charlie the right reaction for almost plunging him into the cold fishy water? Her heart thumped fast at the idea of some version of dementia setting in. Her mother's long-ago warnings came back to her. ‘In sickness and in health,' she'd crowed. ‘That's hardly going to be a fair division over time, is it?' How spiteful that had sounded. Sara hadn't really ever quite forgiven her for that. Illness could happen to anyone, she'd argued back: Sara herself could die, leaving Conrad alone with young children. She could have been run over in the street only weeks after they married.

Conrad was dispatched to wait outside the building on the steps by the Thames – always assuming, she thought furiously, that he didn't decide he'd got a taste for leaping into cold water. Sara changed Charlie's clothes, thanking the heavens that she'd brought plenty of spares with her and spreading them out over all the available space in the baby-changing area. Charlie seemed to understand her anxiety and cooperated beautifully, not rolling or wriggling but just looking at her calmly, as if trying to communicate that all would, somehow, be well. She prayed he was right.

‘You need to carry around so much kit with babies, don't you?' One of the teachers from the ray pool was by the door as Charlie was being crammed into his coat. She was a plump woman with too-long raggedy grey hair that had probably been gloriously auburn in its younger, darker days. Sara smiled uncertainly, feeling crazily paranoid that this woman might be tailing her, spying for a report to Social Services that she and Conrad were unfit grand-parents. A mad thought, but it went perfectly with her mood of the moment.

‘And it can't be easy for you,' the woman sympathized, leaning against the doorpost. ‘I know what it's like being an older mum and dealing with an elderly relative at the same time; they're like extra babies, aren't they? A liability when they start to lose it, the way your father did in there. And us, stuck in the middle between our own children and our second-childhood parents!' She patted Sara on the shoulder; it was meant kindly but made Sara want to cry. She didn't trust herself to speak, so didn't put the woman right about the various relationships here. What, after all, was the point? She muttered dutiful thanks, managed half a smile, gathered Charlie and his possessions into the buggy and fled.

Back in the past, she and Conrad used to think it was funny when he had been mistaken for her father. His usual reaction was to shock the wrongly assuming person by thoroughly kissing Sara in a highly unfatherly way, just to see the appalled look on a face. He said it was an expression he'd tried to catch when painting but had never quite managed. But suddenly, it just wasn't remotely funny. At the door to the building she was hugely relieved to see Conrad safely there in front of her, looking relatively sane and content, leaning over the river wall smoking one of his horrible French cigarettes and not seeming the tiniest bit concerned that he was soaking wet. The way he was being today, it would have been no surprise to have found him way above her, up on the London Eye, sharing a flight capsule with a dozen Milwaukee tourists and waving down at her.

‘Blood ‘n' guts, flouncy costumes or a silly, frilly chick flick?' Will asked as he and Sara approached the cinema. ‘I didn't want to presume so I didn't book anything.'

‘Er . . . ooh I don't know! I just need something I don't have to think about too much, unless there's a special one you've got in mind?' It was a busy night – the day's warmth had brought people out for the evening. Dusk was falling now, though, and those who'd thought a date at an outside table at the pub might appeal were looking for somewhere warmer to spend a few hours.

‘No, I'm easy,' Will said. ‘It's just great to be out of the house. Bruno's spring-cleaning and he's got all the curtains down. He's hired a steam cleaner and boy, is he getting his money's worth. Over the weekend we weren't allowed on the stair carpet because he'd overdone the water, and we ended up sleeping on the sofas. Lucky we've got a downstairs loo, is all I can say. The windows got all steamed up, and no, I don't mean like that! Bit of Jane Austen, then?' he suggested, looking at the hoardings outside the building. ‘Looks like they've got a special revival week of them. Must be to do with school exam time coming up, or something. Don't kids have it easy? Spoonfed. Still, at least you'll know the story, then you can nod off once you've checked out the bonnets and not miss anything crucial. Had a busy day? You're very quiet.'

‘Sorry Will – I'm feeling a bit absent,' she told him as they joined the ticket queue. In her head all she could see was Conrad on the way home from Waterloo. It had been a fairly full train with passengers standing. All the same, there'd been plenty of space around the seats where they were. Nobody wanted to go near Conrad, who was unconcernedly reading the
Standard
while the puddle from his wet clothes trickled across the carriage floor as the train lurched along. ‘This is perfect! I'm like the nutter on the bus,' Conrad had whispered to her, laughing. ‘It certainly buys you space, being mad, doesn't it? Handy tip.'

‘Please don't even think of doing anything like this ever again,' she'd warned him. Did he have the choice, though? Had he really been completely aware of what he'd been doing?

‘Why? Do you think I'll catch pneumonia?' he'd asked.

‘Quite a good way to go, that. They used to call it the “old man's friend” if you'd already got something badly wrong and happened to catch it. It would wipe you out quite painlessly, compared with the alternative. Probably still does, now we're all getting resistant to antibiotics. When I was a kid there really weren't any, and now they're next to useless. I'll have seen them in and seen them out. Like Concorde.'

The big wall poster over the booking desk of Keira Knightley looking wistful went blurry.

‘My darling, you're crying before we even get in there! Whatever is it?' Sara drifted back to reality and to Will. He put his arm round her and led her out of the cinema. She snuggled against him, inhaling the delicious scent of frangipani. Will always smelled wonderful. He and Bruno were very keen on potions and lotions – their bathroom was close to a replica of a department store's Clarins outlet.

‘Look, whatever it is that's making you cry, it's not going to be improved by a weepy movie. Let's go and get a drink, or something to eat instead. You can tell me all about it – or not. Pizza Express?' She was quite hungry, so they opted for food, a better option than a bag of cinema pick ‘n' mix. She thought of Conrad and how he hated the way people always stuffed themselves at the cinema. Having grown up with rationing and in an era when people only ate meals at mealtimes, at home and at a table, he detested the possibility of sitting beside a stranger who was noisily munching a stinking hot dog followed by what he called a ‘crater' of popcorn.

‘I never cry,' Sara sniffed as Will poured her a big glass of wine.

‘Of course you do, babe. We all do. And if you don't, you should try it, as often as possible. There's a good reason for tears,' he told her. ‘It's to do with endorphins or some such. Like exercise . . .' He shuddered. ‘Not that I'd know. Bruno's the body freak.' He patted his rotund stomach, which wobbled beneath his lilac cashmere sweater. Will always favoured pastels, claiming his mother had told him they suited his pale colouring. His hair was even whiter blond than Boris Johnson's, so, depending on the colour combinations, he often resembled a bag of sugared almonds.

‘Anyway, you're supposed to let it all flow and then you'll feel better. Plus your eyes get a sparkly wash and look pretty. So . . .' He sipped his wine and pulled a face. ‘Euw . . . this Merlot has seen better days. Probably not many of them though, it's obviously still a mere infant. So are you going to tell me what's up? Is it that gorgeous man you live with?'

‘
Is
he gorgeous?' Sara asked him. ‘I assume he still is because he always was, if you see what I mean. I don't think
he
thinks so any more. He says he feels old. He's
going
old.'

‘My God,
he
feels old?' Will gasped. ‘If I look half that good at his age I'll be going round telling everyone I'm twenty-seven. How old
is
he, if you don't mind me asking? I mean I know he's no teenager, everyone knows that, but he could be anything up to about sixty-five. And that's hardly anything, is it, not these days. Look at the Rolling Stones. Or perhaps not . . .'

‘Sixty-five? No! He'll be seventy in a few weeks,' Sara told him. ‘Except he's decided not to be. Don't even ask how that works. He's gone funny. He keeps saying he's not going to get any older. I'm scared about what he means. He says he's not ill, but . . .' Strangely, this didn't seem dis-loyal, talking to Will about him. Why was that, she wondered? If she talked to Marie like this she'd feel all wrong. But then Marie would make her talk about her sex life. What there was of it. Will didn't do that. He was more likely to ask about how she stocked her fridge – condiments on the top shelf or in the door racks? Or about cushions – was purple a good accent colour with a turquoise sofa?

Will laughed. ‘Well, is that all? Sara, you're a woman! You should know
exactly
what he's saying here! I'd say he's intending to go backwards, that's all he means. My old mother went up and down from fifty-five to fifty-nine for a good twenty years. Why, what did you think he meant? That he's going to jump off Richmond Bridge?'

Sara watched a young couple at the table opposite. They sat in silence, stolidly munching their way through a heap of garlic bread. Something about their utter stillness told her that even when they'd finished eating, they still wouldn't embark on a conversation. She'd always assumed those long silences were something you didn't get till old age. Maybe age had nothing to do with anything, ever, after all.

‘Will, don't say that! Suppose that's exactly what he
does
mean? I've never had anything with Conrad before that I don't dare to talk about . . . but this one, well it's the big One to Avoid. And today . . .'

She took a deep breath and told him about Conrad paddling at the Aquarium. Will, by the time she'd finished, was almost choking with laughter.

‘Is it that funny?' She was puzzled.

‘
Funny?
Of course it's bloody funny! What did Cassandra say when you told her he'd waded out into the deep like John the Baptist and dunked her poor infant among the fish? Hysterical!'

‘Ah . . . well we didn't tell Cass. I made Conrad promise not to.'

‘
What?
'

‘I was scared, Will! I know it just comes over as an amusing little story but at the time, the way he was, it was like he'd completely lost the plot. He just wasn't
connected
. I don't want Cass to think we can't take care of Charlie. Oh God, perhaps we can't! Or at least, perhaps
Conrad
can't. How can I think of him as safe to be in charge of a baby after this?'

Will looked more serious now, thinking. ‘Hmmm. Well if you really feel like that, then just . . . don't let him.'

‘He'd be mortified . . . so upset. But you're right. Charlie's safety comes first, obviously.'

Will smiled and stroked her hand. ‘But look, sweetie, he's an artist. They do mad things. They do it because they can, or for attention – you shouldn't need me to tell you that. If Tracey Emin climbed into the penguin pool at London Zoo, even if it was just to pick up a glove she'd dropped over the wall, she'd turn the whole episode into a conversation piece and have it written up in the
Sunday Times
ponce pages complete with photos and the usual guff about her abortion. Think of Conrad like that, apart from those bits, obviously. He's turned into . . . a . . . what do you call it, a human
installation
. An event. See? He's just being
him
. Nothing spooky, nothing dangerously mad. Trust me, darling, and wish him a happy sixty-eighth birthday when the time comes. OK, counselling session over for now. My turn later cos I've been agonizing over whether Bruno would think a surprise trip to San Francisco would be a yay or a nay and I want your input. But for now . . . are you going for your usual Margherita? Or are you going to be
completely
crazy too, maybe as off the wall as choosing lasagne?'

‘No, it's fine – it doesn't matter at
all
about the colours being true to life. Whatever you feel. If you want to paint him completely in purple then of course you can. You see, that's the point, Melissa – art is about expressing what's inside
you
. There
are
no rules. Any medium, any shade, any size. Each decision is what makes up your inner artist. Do you see?' Sara tried to look encouraging. Most of her students relished the idea of absolute free choice when it came to artistic impression, but with this one it was hard work. Sometimes half the lesson had gone before she'd decided whether to use a pencil or a brush.