Singled Out (2 page)

Look how we’ve all jogged comfortably along for so many years, Max and his two women in their separate, non-interlocking worlds, once long habit had dulled my initial feelings of guilt; a guilt that now seems to be slowly seeping back in.

Max once assured me that Rosemary tacitly accepted our affair, since she was not interested much in the sexual side of marriage even before her dreadful accident, and at least I
was
sharing him – I mean, I hadn’t taken him entirely away from her, as I might have done.

But now that golf (once merely his face-saving excuse for frequent weekends away) has become more of a passion than I am, I’m wondering if perhaps he could get by quite nicely with that and Rosemary?

Am I extraneous? Suddenly surplus to requirements?

Vague daydreams of the ‘poor Rosemary hasn’t got long to go, and then we can marry and have a family’ kind have sustained me over the years, but suddenly here we are a good twenty years down the line, and every cheery sundial is saying:
The Time is Later Than You Think.

But strangely enough, all this sudden angst seems to be doing wonders for my writing.

Is this another example of good coming out of bad?

Whenever Orla has a big problem she writes down the reasons for and against doing whatever it is she is worrying about, so I settled down to compile a list of the pros and cons of being Max’s mistress:

For:

1) Lots of time to write in.

2) Independence.

3) Don’t have to wash his dirty underwear.

4) Do not have to look wonderful all the time.

5) Max is tall, handsome, clever, charismatic, and distinguished. (And sexy.)

6) My brothers are all still in contact with me.

7) Have my friends for company when he isn’t there.

Against:

1) Guilt, because of his invalid wife, Rosemary.

2) Loneliness.

3) Max not interested in horror writing.

4) He’s never there in an emergency.

5) When he is there, he expects me to look great and be in the mood for lurve, like I’ve got an On and Off switch.

6) I now play second fiddle to his new love, golf.

7) Max resents my sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night to write and visit graveyards.

8) Max adamant about not having children until we can marry, which looks like being never.

9) Having committed to the relationship with Max, have to remain faithful due to inbuilt Puritan streak. (But haven’t been terribly tempted by anyone else for years, anyway.)

10) Max spooked by my mind-reading skills, even though I’ve promised never to do it to him … again. (And all I read was exasperated affection, lust and guilt, which figured.)

11) Ma hasn’t spoken to me since, and Pa only rings me up to curse me.

12) My sister Jane is always phoning me up or dropping in uninvited.

13) Max jealous of my longstanding strong friendships with Orla Murphy and Jason Shaw (and his wife Tanya, until she took off a couple of years ago.)

Conclusion:

Clearly, the game is not worth the candle!

But then, no one else has tempted me seriously in all these years, so even were I to ditch Max I would still have most of the disadvantages. Besides, whenever I get fed up with things as they are I only have to see him again and I’m putty in his hands.

This charisma, Svengali touch, or whatever you want to call it, is not something that works well via occasional transatlantic phone calls.

In the grip of a depression like a dank fog I resorted to desperate measures.

*   *   *

‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man of over forty is in possession of a
major
defect,’ Orla stated, walking past me into the cottage and flinging her coat and bag on to the nearest chair.

Then she stared glumly at her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace.

‘Yes, just as I thought,’ she said. ‘Hair blonde to the roots, curves in all the rights places, minimal crow’s feet, luscious lips, big, baby-blue eyes. What a waste!’

‘Do I take it that your Perfect Partner wasn’t?’

‘Forty-six and still lives with Mummy. I’ve had every variety of unmarried man now: Divorced, for which read rejected by wife for a very good reason; Mummy’s Little Boy, like tonight, and Widowed, Wizened and Smug, like last week’s offering.’

‘You haven’t had Reclusive or Gay yet,’ I pointed out helpfully.

‘They don’t join dating agencies – or at least, not Perfect Partners, What’s that you’re drinking?’

‘Max’s bottle of Laphroaig from under the sink.’

‘I thought you didn’t like whisky?’

‘I’d never tried it before, because Pa’s drinking spirits put me off the idea. But it’s like gold: hot liquid gold.’

‘Very poetic. I’ll have some. Got any ginger?’

‘You can’t put ginger in good whisky!’

‘You can if your friend’s snooty lover isn’t there to see you do it.’

She kicked off the stiletto shoes that had raised her to the level of my chin, then curled up on the sofa. ‘Phew, that’s better! You know, it’s simply impossible to believe in the theory of evolution, because if it was true by now women’s feet would naturally have pointed toes and thin, four-inch heelbones.’

‘Mine wouldn’t, I’ve been wearing those Nanook of the North knee-length suede moccasin boots all winter. And Max
isn’t
snooty!’

‘Of course he is, and he’s getting worse the older he gets. He’s turning into a boring old fogy right under your nose. Just think about it,’ she added earnestly. ‘The sudden passion for golf, imagining he looks good in Rupert Bear trousers, droning on about why expensive wine is the only sort worth drinking, trying to get you to write literary novels instead of the horror you’re so brilliant at: I rest my case. Come on, let’s be young and reckless and desecrate his whisky!’

‘You’re an idiot,’ I said, pouring her drink. ‘And Max isn’t like that at all!’

But then I actually
thought
about what I was saying instead of letting my mouth run on automatic pilot and realised she was right: ‘OK, yes he is – and selfish, too! Why hadn’t I noticed that before?’

I took another swig of whisky, which was helpfully reconnecting parts of my brain that had long since stopped communicating with each other even by semaphore. Laphroaig Gets you Clean Round The Bend.

‘Until he took himself off for this sabbatical thing, I’d just been drifting along never really questioning anything, Orla. I mean, I did all the agonising years ago when I fell in love with him and realised he couldn’t leave Rosemary, and once I was committed to the relationship I suppose it was just like a long marriage, where the changes are so gradual you don’t notice them.’

‘Except it
wasn’t
a marriage, and it’s a bit significant that he took his wife to America with him and not you,’ Orla pointed out helpfully. ‘You’re still only The Mistress even after all these years. Or maybe
because
of all these years? Your novelty’s worn off.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Well, it’s no worse than me, is it? Dumped for a younger model, and destined to be divorced, single and desperate for ever. I’m a Trade-in, and you’re a slightly tarnished Spinster Of This Parish.’

Since we seemed to have empty glasses I poured us both another generous measure of peaty goodness.

‘At least you still have parents who love you, Orla. Mine always treated me like a changeling or a cuckoo in the nest, just because I took after my gypsy great-grandmother, and then they cast me out entirely when they found out about Max.’

‘Yes,’ she conceded. ‘Though Daddy can’t always remember who I am these days.’

‘
I
was an unwanted throw-back for the first half of my life, and I’ve been a married man’s mistress for the second. That’s not going to look good on my tombstone, is it?’

‘No, but then, you’re not going to pop your clogs yet, are you? You’ve probably got years left, and you can write your own epitaph before you go.’

‘She dealt horror and death wherever she went?’
I suggested.

‘That’s more like it. And it’s always seemed to me that you had your life arranged to suit you pretty well – perhaps better than you realised.’

‘Oh yes, apart from feeling permanently guilty about Rosemary, only seeing Max for occasional weekends had a lot of advantages. He devoted himself to me when he was there, and the rest of the time I could write, and research, and bum about in my old dressing gown looking an absolute dog.’ I sighed. ‘Of course, the downside was that there was never anyone but me to cope with the blocked drains, or the blown fuses, or even just keep me company when I felt lonely or down.’

‘And the infrequent sex,’ pointed out Orla, whose list of life’s priorities was perhaps not in quite the same order as mine. ‘Why you’ve remained steadfastly faithful to the Unfaithful is one of the great paradoxes of all time. Max was definitely getting the best deal: a wife, a comfortable home and a career, plus someone young and pretty on the side. All he had to do was turn up when he felt like it with his little hamper of goodies and expensive bottles of plonk. No strings, no worries.’

‘He loves me!’ I protested, then paused. ‘Or – he did love me. He really did, Orla. When I finally agreed to this arrangement he actually cried! And he promised he would be faithful to me always.’

‘But was he?’ she queried cynically.

‘As far as I know, and I don’t really see how he’d have the time to be anything else, because he’s either been working, or under Rosemary’s eye, or here. Or playing golf, I suppose, which was originally only a cover story for his weekends away. If Rosemary hadn’t been an invalid, I’m sure he’d have left her soon after we met. But he always meant to marry me when she … well … when she—’

‘Died?’ Orla suggested helpfully.

‘That sounds so crude, but yes,’ I agreed guiltily.

‘You’re so credulous! Just because she’s partially paralysed after that skiing accident it doesn’t mean she won’t live as long as anyone else if she has the proper care – which she does, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes, of course, the best of everything. And I never wanted her to die just so Max and I could marry … or not entirely. I’m guilty enough as it is.’

‘Oh, come on! You were a naive student from a strict family, desperate for love; he was a lecturer, your typical suave, handsome, older man in a position of power. It’s only surprising that you resisted so long. Max should have let you go when you got that teaching job and moved here to Westery. You’d probably have found a nice man and have lots of children by now.’

‘Who knows? You thought
you
had a happy marriage until Mike suddenly asked for the divorce, didn’t you? But I would have liked the chance to have children, and that’s the only thing I’ve ever argued about with Max. He’s never wanted them, and I have, and the years pass so quickly. And then suddenly he tells me he’s off to America for a year with Rosemary!’

‘The bastard,’ comforted Orla. ‘Have the last of his whisky.’

‘He even said it would probably do our relationship good to be apart for a few months!’

‘The
absolute
bastard!’

‘Yes, and it was when he said he couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that, that I suddenly saw him – us – from a different perspective. Things sort of shifted.’

‘I should think so, after all the opportunities you’ve passed up for his sake.’

‘That’s what I said, and then we argued about the baby thing again, because I wanted to try and get pregnant before he left. I expect he thinks I will be past it when he gets back, and I probably will be too, if I’m not already.’

‘I don’t know what you want one for anyway,’ Orla said. ‘But then, my maternal instincts are completely absent. How old are you now?’

‘Forty-four.’

‘Mmm … late, but you could still give it a go. You can get some sort of kit, can’t you, to test if you’re still fertile?’

‘Yes, but Max won’t be back for months, and even then I’d still have to persuade him.’

‘Not with Max. Someone else.’

‘But I don’t know anyone else except Jason, and he’s such an old friend I couldn’t possibly. And even if I could, just look how his son’s turned out!’ I shuddered. ‘Who’d want offspring like Tom?’

‘That’s a point
and
he’s as old as you. Whereas if you got a younger lover you’d probably have a better chance of getting pregnant – if you’re really serious about it. Maybe younger lovers are the way to go anyway? I mean, if I’m not going to find good sex and a soulmate combined in one package in my age group, I might at least have the good sex.’

‘I
thought
I had a soulmate, but he’s really keener on the golf than me these days. I’m just a habit to him.’

‘Convenient Cassy, always there when he wants you,’ agreed Job’s comforter. ‘Probably convenient to Rosemary too, because although she knows he’s unfaithful, at least it’s only with one person.’

‘I suppose so. But whenever I wonder if I could bring myself to break with him, I remember all the good times. And when he rings up and says he misses me, I just can’t do it! He can be so charming when he wants to be that the things I mean to say go right out of my head, and I can’t ring him back and say them later, because I’ve no way of contacting him.’

‘What, none?’ Orla said, startled. ‘Email?’

‘He doesn’t trust it.’

‘Right. New-fangled invention, I know. He could write?’

‘He could – but he doesn’t. I tell you, Orla, when I take a clear look at my life, what have I got apart from my writing?’

And an empty glass.

‘A clear case of rebellion?’ she suggested. ‘It’s not like you to drink Max’s precious whisky, for a start! And now I come to think of it, where are all his things?’

She looked around, her eyes so wide that the spiky lashes spread like a sooty sunburst. ‘I mean, we’re drinking whisky from the bottle, not a cut-crystal decanter, and these glasses look like Woolworth’s finest.’

‘They are. I’ve just packed all his stuff into empty Fortnum and Mason hampers and put them in the attic while I was up there getting the Christmas decorations down.’