State We're In (28 page)

Now he was a thin sack of skin and bone and cancerous cells. The little hair he had left was whiter than the sheets he lay on, and his pallor was grey, like a pitiless winter sky. She doubted he'd lived well. He probably hadn't looked after himself; she'd never expected that, but she had expected someone to take care of him. Some woman must have wanted the job. She'd often thought, as she made fish pie with responsibly caught cod and a minimum of three organic vegetables for her own clan, that no doubt someone was doing the same for him, somewhere; the thought had always comforted her and tortured her. It was a surprise to find that there hadn't been someone. This man didn't look as though he'd had the benefit of a woman picking out his ties, buying him his favourite cheeses, telling him to make an appointment at the doctor's when he first had pains in the upper abdomen, when he started to inexplicably lose weight as he developed a jaundiced hue. He'd been neglected.

Why? Why hadn't there been someone. Had he driven them all away? Had he perpetually run away?

Clara thought about what she ought to say next. He hadn't taken his eyes off her from the moment she'd walked into the ward. She'd sensed him, before she saw him, as she had always done, and now she couldn't turn her gaze away from him either. His eyes were pleading with her. She knew he wouldn't want her to ask him how he was feeling, if she could get anything, whether he'd like some water. Others could do that. They'd always left the dull chores of functioning to others. They were all about living in a more pure and desperate sense. The most pure and desperate sense. His eyes begged her not to let him down now, this late in the day. Not to fall into the abyss of normality.

‘Do you remember?' Clara asked. Her voice rang clearly through the ward. She didn't need to be specific. She meant all of it. Did he remember the intensity, the impossibility, the immeasurable need they had for one another? She thought perhaps he did remember, because why else would he have written? But she could not be sure. Not with Eddie Taylor. The only thing one could count on with Eddie Taylor was how unreliable he was. She reached across his bed and threaded her fingers through his. His skin felt papery. Could she damage him? Still, it felt natural to hold his hand. She'd always been consumed by him. Her skin had always melted into his.

‘Oh, the sex we had,' he chuckled; the laugh was raspy and laboured but authentic.

‘Yes, the sex.' Clara nodded. Although that was not all. He'd rarely called it lovemaking. He'd had her. Taken her. Done her. They'd had sex furiously and frantically in the afternoons. They skipped out of work, took a hotel or borrowed keys to a colleague's home. They did it in spare beds, strangers' beds, hallways and – if needs be – alleyways. In and out. Out and in. Hands all over. Lips. Legs. Hips and tits. She had never seen a future for them, but nor did she have a past when she was with him. She began and ended in those snatched afternoons. She knew he was married. He knew she was. She knew it but never thought of it. Could not. Would not. She had never allowed herself to picture the wife or the son.

‘You were perfect,' Eddie murmured. The compliment settled on her, took effect like the first sip of crisp champagne; it trickled through her, causing her to dance on the inside, as his rare but coveted compliments always had. ‘The perfect mistress,' he added, immediately fast-forwarding through the delightful drunken haze and flinging her into a regretful hangover. He had not changed, then. She leant close to him and heard him whisper, ‘You never asked awkward questions.' Clearing up his definition of perfection.

No, she had never humiliated herself or embarrassed him by asking questions. She never asked if she was his only current mistress, or whether he was still sleeping with his wife. When she first found out, through gossip in the office, that his wife was pregnant with a second child, she thought she would die. The jealousy ripped at her innards, tore at her mind, lacerated her body. She thought she would not be able to touch him again. She stormed into his office and threw a hole punch at his head. Before then, she'd never given him any hint at how she felt about him. How she was his. She hadn't ever said she loved him, although he said it to her often enough. She had doubted him; she thought he was the type to be quite loose-lipped when it came to saying as much to women.

He'd been mesmerised by her apparent indifference, but her obvious jealousy captivated him entirely. For the first time in his life he wanted to please a woman more than he wanted to please himself. He'd slammed his office door closed, silenced her angry yells with hot, hard kisses and then he'd had her up against the wall, just yards away from where their colleagues were typing and filing.

‘You were awful,' she said with a smile.

‘Wasn't I?' he replied with eminent pleasure.

‘Not in the least perfect, by anyone's standard.' She made sure she sounded as though she was joking – that was always her way with him – but as she said it, she realised she was still angry. She hadn't thought this was the case; she'd told herself she'd reached a state of indifference years and years ago. Immune. The letter had exposed her as a fraud. She was not immune. To him, or to the consequences.

‘We had something for a while there, didn't we?' A dying man could say it as it was.

‘Yes, yes, we did.' A liberated woman could admit that much. They'd carried on for another year and a half after she'd found out about him impregnating his wife.

‘We could have had more.' Eddie squeezed her fingers with his own, but it wasn't an affectionate squeeze; he was trying to hurt her. His grip nipped spitefully; if he'd had more strength, he might have caused some real pain. Was he angry too? More angry than she was? Or was he simply sulking because he hadn't got his own way? She had never known whether Eddie's longing for her was genuine love or a complex mix of selfishness, desire and convenience.

It was true that he had talked of a life he could imagine for them, but she would not let him leave his wife. She told him time after time that that wasn't what she wanted. But he hadn't listened to her. He hadn't believed her. He'd been sure she must love him. No doubt he'd reasoned, what woman could resist? But it wasn't just about the two of them, was it? Or even about them and their existing partners. When Eddie Taylor had talked about their future, he had a cornucopia of dreams and plans. They might live abroad – America, France or even Australia. They might move to Hollywood and pitch his scripts; they might drive around Europe in a camper van; or they might just rent a flat in W1 and make love every day. In none of his visions did he mention their children.

She would not leave her girls.

It had been horrible. He'd turned up on her doorstep in Wimbledon. The girls weren't even in bed; Lisa had answered the door to him. Clara had sobered up in an instant. It was as though someone had plunged her into an icy sea. Her first thought had been horror, then disgust. His selfishness had astounded her. Why hadn't he listened when she'd told him she was never going to leave her family? How could he have left his own? She'd felt ashamed. Deeply, darkly ashamed. She told herself that she'd never loved him; that it had simply been a case of her weak body commandeering the situation, because how could she have really loved such a wild and selfish man? She begged him to go away, and when that didn't work, she demanded it.

‘I'm not sure we could have had more really,' she commented. The expression in Eddie's gaze shifted an infinitesimal degree. The happy reminiscing shifted to something harder and colder, like frost solidifying a tumbling brook. Not everyone would have noticed, but Clara had always picked up on the nuance of his moods; she suspected that part of the reason he had found her so attractive was because she found him so interesting. She'd always feared that ultimately his feelings for her were really all about how he felt about himself. How awful, as she believed this to be true of Tim as well.

‘So, what did Clara do next?' Eddie asked. The curiosity was shaded by a hint of sarcasm. Eddie probably still believed Clara ought not to have had a next, at least not one that didn't involve him.

Tim had been very understanding and had accepted her apologies and explanation. Magnanimously, he'd even recognised his part in bringing about the crisis; he admitted that perhaps he hadn't fulfilled his role as a husband on every level.

‘I stayed.' Eddie made a
humph
sound. Clara wasn't sure if it was due to the fact that breathing was obviously difficult, or because he was disgusted by her answer. ‘As I always said I would,' she added. She and Tim had agreed that breaking up the family was the wrong thing to do. They'd been very adult, very sensible. Tim had started to pay her more attention in the bedroom. It wasn't passionate – he did not consume her, he did not crawl up under her skin – but it was well executed, careful, thoughtful and, most importantly, fruitful. They conceived Mark. ‘I had another child, a son.'

‘Very nice.'

When Mark was three months old, Tim had told Clara that he was sorry, but he didn't think he was going to be able to have sex with her again. He explained that he was gay, that he'd finally come to terms with it and wanted her to as well. She had heard the doors slam shut. She was trapped. She could not pack up the three children and chase after Eddie Taylor. He did not want her three children. By that time he might not have wanted her either; no doubt he would have moved on. And she did not want anyone else.

She'd been struck with inertia. After an extended bout of exhaustion and confusion and a profound but relatively brief bout of depression, she'd agreed to Tim's suggestion that they just carry on as they were. One big happy family.

And they had been happy. There was a lot of love. Tim was her best friend. Not every wife could say that about her husband. The children had everything: a stable home, devoted and loving parents, private schooling, foreign holidays, sunny picnics, seaside visits, happy memories. She'd had a sense of order, a sense of place. Everything other than the sense that she was desired. But nothing was perfect.

‘T
ell me some more about Martin,' said Dean. Jo stared at him and blinked twice. ‘He wasn't in your favourite moments.'

‘Sorry?'

‘When you listed your happiest moments on the plane today, you never mentioned him.'

‘Can't a girl be independent?' Jo bristled. She was so clearly stalling for time.

‘They can, and it's lovely when they are, but you're not. So why didn't he feature?' Dean really wanted to know. He really wanted her to think.

‘Oh my God. I don't know why,' she answered with an anguish that could be nothing other than heartfelt. She put down her hot dog; as delicious as it was, it clearly stuck in her throat. ‘I mean, we did have great times. Obviously. We used to go to the movies, trendy bars and smart restaurants. We were always having friends around for dinner parties; those evenings were such fun. We went on mini-breaks and compiled a wedding list. Great times, fun times,' she repeated firmly. ‘I mean, otherwise I wouldn't be here, right?' She held up her hands, indicating that she was taking in the bright, light city.

‘Wouldn't you?' Dean tilted his head a fraction towards her. His fringe flopped in front of his eyes and yet he held her gaze. He knew what effect this particular move had on women. He'd been told before that his gaze ran through them, that his eyes were amazing; one woman had actually described them as ‘a constellation of bright blue tones'. No doubt Jo, with her shamefully romantic imagination, would be thinking about diving into sparkling Mediterranean seas or similar. Though he'd actually prefer it if she was thinking about the question he'd just asked.

‘No, I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe that he was the One for me. This is
it
. This is my big romantic moment,' she muttered.

He wasn't convinced, and from the way she was nervously fidgeting, he doubted even she was.

‘So tell me how you know this Martin guy is the One.'

‘You really want to know?'

‘I wouldn't have asked otherwise.'

Jo took a deep breath and thought about it. She'd try to be truthful, as far as she was able; Dean could trust her to be that. The issue would be, was she being truthful with herself? ‘You see, I felt it so keenly when I was talking to Lisa in the London bar, and again in my mum's kitchen.'

‘Right.'

‘I was convinced I
had
to stop Martin marrying someone else. That I had to have him for myself.'

‘Hmm.'

The intensity and certainty of the decision was clearly eluding her now. As she glanced around, aware of other couples laughing and bickering, chatting and joking, she looked panicked and frightened. Dean almost felt sorry for her.

‘Well, he's decent, you know,
kind
, and so many men aren't. You've just said as much yourself. He wasn't
ever
unfaithful. He didn't so much as look at another woman once. That didn't seem such a big deal when we dated, I took it for granted, but five years of single life has taught me that fidelity isn't a given.' She sighed. ‘In fact, the opposite is the case. Fidelity is as rare as pixie dust; you can't imagine how often men ask me to be discreet.'

‘Meaning?'

‘They want me to be their mistress, or not even that; sometimes just a quick lay.'

‘And is that tempting?' Dean knew women who were happy to be both or either on occasion, sometimes in the hope that something bigger might blossom, or as a last resort. He got it – it blanked out the loneliness for a while – but he found he didn't want Jo to be one of those women.

‘Never,' she replied firmly. ‘I tell those guys to take a hike. I've never been the bit on the side.' She paused, and then looked momentarily guilty.