The Benefits of Passion (30 page)

Johnny returned at last. Mara stirred. ‘Say thank you to Will,' she whispered.

‘Of course,' said Annie.

She walked with Johnny to his car, the melting tarmac tugging at her shoes.

‘Thanks for coming, pet,' he said, unlocking the door.

‘That's OK. I'm really sorry, Johnny.'

‘Thanks, sweetheart.'

They got in. He started the car.

‘Um, would you like to eat with us tonight?' she asked.

‘I'd love to, but I've got my parents coming over.' He sighed. ‘To look after me and generally tell me what a useless bastard I am.'

‘But –'

‘Know what my dad said when I rang? “Keep it in your trousers, son. You've caused enough bother.”'

‘That's horrible!' cried Annie.

‘Aye, but he's right. I'm to blame,' he said. ‘Putting her through that. She was screaming, Annie. It was . . . I lost it. Completely. Thank God Will was there, that's all.'

Annie was appalled by the raw grief in his voice. She put a hand on his arm and said again, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Maybe I'm just selfish, wanting a bairn.'

‘But she wants one, too.'

‘Only for my sake.'

Annie didn't know how to answer. They pulled up outside the house.

‘Aye, well. That's life,' said Johnny at last. ‘Tell him thanks, won't you?'

‘Of course.'

She was getting out of the car when he said, ‘Oh, I was forgetting. I saw the Bishop. He's given me the go-ahead with the church planting. And he says it's OK for you to help, only not in any official capacity. “We'll have to address the problem of her domestic circumstances at some stage,” he says. Don't worry,' said Johnny, seeing Annie's mortified expression. ‘He'll support you. He just can't commission you officially. “It's all a question of
order
, John.”'

‘I can't do it, then.'

‘Don't be daft. They don't get to be bishops without a Ph.D. in being cautious. Think it over.'

‘OK.'

She hurried into the house as he drove off. Her mother's voice was already crowing in her ears. Oh, you thought you could get away with it, did you? There's such a thing as common decency, you know, Anne. You should have thought of that before you stuck your neck out. Nobody's going to want you now. Well, you made your bed, didn't you? You can't blame the rest of us if you don't like lying in it.

Shut up. Annie tried to cling to the thought that God wasn't condemning her, that she could still be useful to him. Johnny accepted her. Why, even the Bishop accepted her. He was just being cautious. He would support her. It was just a question of order. But her mother's voice rambled on, jeering and accusing, refusing to be silenced. Annie was back where she had always been – in the wrong. I will never, never feel acceptable, she thought. Then her mother's voice changed tack. Oh, I know it's not your fault, Anne. You'd marry him like a shot, if you could. You'll just have to accept that you've landed yourself with a man who's too selfish to do the honours. He'd rather ruin your career than give up his precious so-called principles.

Annie stopped short. I don't think that, do I? To her horror she saw that part of her did. Any possibility of her working professionally in the Church was effectively being blocked by Will. She felt a wave of panic. She was trapped. If she tried to force his hand she would lose him. It was a choice between two losses.
Stop trying to make me choose between you and God!
she remembered herself saying to him once. And what had he replied?
You can't have everything, honey child.
Oh, was there no way of living honourably in all this?

That night she had her dream of hell again. She woke to feel Will shaking her.

‘I was in hell,' she said.

‘Well, that puts life with me into perspective,' he remarked.

She switched on the light and tried to shake off the desolate blackness. He was stroking her forehead. ‘I'd lost God. I called but knew he couldn't answer.'

‘Are you afraid of eternal damnation?'

‘Don't worry. It's just the legacy of my upbringing,' she said.

‘So long as it's not my fault.'

‘No, no.' But her voice wavered. She saw him frowning as she turned the light back out.

CHAPTER 28

The next day she couldn't bring herself to read her Bible. She took refuge, as she had all her life, in her imaginary world. But Barney and Isabella were at a turning point, too. The plot was about to collapse into a deconstruction of the happily-ever-after myth. The prince sweeps the princess into his arms and gallops off with her to his castle, whereupon the marriage disintegrates. It would be open-ended, ambiguous at the last, like life. This was what she had planned all along. No easy happy ending. But now she realized how much she longed for a resolution, for some sense of closure both in her book and in her life. She skirted tentatively round the idea of marriage once more. Well, she would have to survive without a dénouement. She picked up her pen.

Before Barney and Isabella had fully recovered from the boeuf Wellington fiasco, disaster struck. The vicar announced that he was leaving. This would mean an interregnum of up to a year before a replacement was found, and during that time Barney would have to hold the fort alone. Of course there would be help from other clergy in the Deanery, but the greatest burden would fall on Barney.

Months went past. It struck Isabella one day that she couldn't remember when she last saw her husband smile. He was fading before her eyes. Concerned ladies popped round with meat pies and gave Isabella little hints about a man needing his food. He raced from one thing to another trying to keep the parish plates spinning. Isabella was torn between resentment and pity.

‘Barney, this is terrible,' she said one day. He was sitting at the dining-room table, scribbling a funeral sermon. ‘It shouldn't be like this. Can't you talk to the Bishop?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘It would look as though I'm not coping.'

‘But you're not coping!'

‘I am.'

‘You're not! The job's eating you alive.' He sighed and put on his resigned expression. She wanted to shake him. ‘Look at you! You've lost weight, you've gone off sex, even. How can you say you're coping?'

‘I'd cope a damn sight better without you whingeing,' he muttered.

‘
Whingeing?
' she exploded. ‘Listen, dickhead, these are real grievances. I'm beginning to wish I'd never married you. I saw more of you when we were engaged. At least I was a priority then. But now any lame duck in the whole sodding parish is higher up the list than me. All they have to do is phone and you go dashing round to minister to them! I'm your bloody
wife
! Doesn't that mean anything to you? What do I have to do to get a share of your attention?'

‘Try growing up,' he suggested, returning to his sermon.

Isabella stared in speechless rage. This was how he'd looked all that time ago in the university library – working away, stubbornly refusing to look at her. He hadn't changed. He was never going to change. A kind of cold defiance settled on her.

‘Well,' she said, ‘if you're not going to make an effort, neither am I.'

He didn't even glance up.

For the next week they were locked in a silent battle. Isabella went out drinking each night with her workmates. She got back late, but he wouldn't ask where she'd been. She stopped cooking, but he didn't comment, just patiently made himself cheese sandwiches. His martyr act was beautifully understated. They lay side by side in bed each night until she ached with the effort of keeping her hands off him. She knew he was awake. All she had to do was stretch out a hand . . . How had he managed to occupy the moral high ground again? He was camped out there in his deck chair with a beer, waiting for her to crawl back. No, I'm damned if I will. Besides, she was having too much fun with the girls from work.

But on Friday they went to a nightclub and it stopped being fun. Isabella drank too much and found herself entangled with some slimy git who wouldn't take no for an answer. Maybe she'd given him the wrong impression during that slow dance. She extricated herself from a nasty bout of snogging and groping, and refused all offers of a lift home in his sports car. She was badly shaken. It could so easily have been a lot worse. However, a couple more Bacardis tamed it. Just a good anecdote to tell the girls. They left the club in the small hours whooping and screeching as they bundled into a taxi.

Isabella crept up the stairs. I'm still pissed. A pint of water. That's what they all said. Helps the old hangover. She found a glass in the bathroom and filled it. She was about to drink when she glanced in the mirror and saw a lovebite on her neck. Shit! The glass fell from her hand and splintered in the washbasin. She turned round and there was Barney at the door. Her hand clutched her throat and she giggled in fear.

‘You're drunk,' he said.

‘Nothing happened. I was just out with the girls.' Her stupid babbles echoed in the bathroom. ‘I'm sorry, Barney. I'm sorry.'

He took a step towards her and wrenched her hand from her neck. She heard herself giggling again and tried to stop. He was shaking her. She could hear him shouting, calling her names.

‘Why? Why, you stupid little slut? How could you do it?'

‘I didn't,' she sobbed. ‘I didn't do it!'

He pushed her into the bath and forced her head under the tap. Icy water beat on her face. ‘You're like a sow. You're like a bitch on heat. You just can't say no, can you?'

She couldn't draw breath to explain. He's trying to drown me! She fought him in terror, snorting and choking until he dragged her from the bath and flung her across the room. She staggered and hit her head on the washbasin as she fell.

He'd gone. The water rushed on and on. She lay curled up, too scared to cry. In the end she got to her feet and turned off the tap. Oh, God, what am I going to do? She stood dripping, clutching the washbasin. In the end she peeled off her silly little dress and wrapped herself in a towel before creeping to the spare room. She lay shivering and hugging herself on the narrow bed. The room was dark and spinning.

Footsteps. She tensed. The light snapped on. He yanked the covers off her.

‘You're my wife and you'll bloody well sleep in my bed.' He dragged her to the other room. ‘You want sex? I'll give you sex.'

‘No!' she screamed. ‘Don't hurt me, Barney.'

He forced her down on to the bed.

‘Don't! Don't!'

He slapped her across the mouth. ‘Shut up! Just shut up and let me do it.'

At last it was over. Isabella lurched to the bathroom and threw up. She spent the rest of the night lying beside him rigid with terror. Sometimes she drifted asleep only to be jerked awake by the sound of him stirring. She wept inwardly. I want to go home. I want my mum and dad.

Morning came. Isabella lay trembling as Barney got up and went to the bathroom to shower. Would he say anything? He came back and began to get dressed. He wouldn't even look at her. She steeled herself. ‘Barney, we've got to talk.'

‘There's nothing to say, is there?'

‘If you'd just let me explain!'

‘No!' He caught her arm and pulled her to him. His face was inches from hers, taut with rage. ‘Just do one thing for me, Isabella. Spare me the details.'

‘I'm sorry,' she wept.

He let her go. She listened to his footsteps going down the stairs, then leaving the house for Morning Prayer.

Oh, God, help me! She lay sobbing. Did he really think she'd had it off? No, she'd told him last night she hadn't. She might be a lot of things, but she wasn't a liar. He knew that. Dear God, if this was what he dished out for a drunken smooch, what would he do if she actually slept with someone? His warning came back to her:
I can't make you faithful to me, but I can make you very, very sorry if you're not
. All she could do was show by her actions how truly repentant she was and wait for him to calm down and forgive her.

She went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her right eye was black. Oh, God! Her reflection stared back, ashen. I hit my head on the washbasin when I fell. I'd had too much to drink and slipped and hit my head on the washbasin. It's the truth! Tears rolled down her cheeks. But how could she explain the swollen lip? This can't be me. This can't be happening. But somehow it was. She had slid overnight into the shameful ranks of women whose husbands beat them up. She was a useless liar, but she was going to have to learn fast. Her tears dripped into the shattered glass in the sink.

He preached the next day on forgiveness. No one observing his sweet gentle manner would have guessed how far he was from putting his words into practice.

Days passed. The house had never been cleaner and tidier. Meals had never been so carefully prepared. The ironing basket was empty. Isabella waited and waited to be forgiven. But still Barney wouldn't talk, wouldn't touch her, wouldn't look at her even. He was courteous, as though she were a new housekeeper. If he saw her weeping he left the house.

Their wedding anniversary came and went uncelebrated. Isabella was sick with misery. She sat alone in the empty house, sobbing in the middle of the varnished sitting-room floor. She had earned enough money to buy the Persian rug she had always wanted. But she knew she'd never buy it. She would need the money for something else now. She was leaving. She would go home to her parents. Now, at once, without even packing. She would take her credit card, catch a train and go.

She went to the hallway and dialled for a taxi to take her to the station. Someone at the other end had just picked up the receiver when Isabella heard the sound of Barney's key in the door. She hung up guiltily. There was no time to run.

‘Who were you ringing?' he asked.

‘No one. The clock. The speaking clock,' she gabbled. ‘I wanted to know the exact time.'

He caught her by the wrist. ‘That's easy enough to check.' He picked up the receiver and pressed the redial button. They waited, listening to the clicks then the ringing tone. Isabella was trembling. God help me! Let me think something up. Quickly.

‘Dixon's Taxis,' said a tiny voice.

Barney hung up and turned to her, face rigid with fury.

‘Oh, God, Barney –'

‘So he's a cab driver?'

‘No! I wasn't –'

He hit her. She crumpled to the floor.

‘Don't! Oh, God, don't hurt me, Barney!'

He picked her up and flung her across the hall. She screamed in terror.

‘Why? Why?' he was shouting. ‘What have I got to do? What in God's name have I got to do to make you –'

‘It's not what you think! I was getting a taxi to the station. I swear to God! I was just going home. Don't hurt me!'

She could see him clamping his arms tightly round himself, trying desperately to restrain his hands.

‘Going home? Then why lie? Isabella, what am I supposed to think if you lie to me like that? I can't . . .' For a moment his face trembled, but he regained control. ‘Look, I don't mind if you go to see your parents. It's all right. You don't have to sneak off. I won't try to stop you.' He was making his voice gentle, as though soothing a frightened dog. ‘It's all right, Bella. Are they expecting you?'

She shook her head. It throbbed where he had hit her. No visible marks this time. He was learning.

‘Why don't we both go?' he suggested.

She nodded.

‘We could both use a break,' he said. ‘I'll see if I can find a couple of days. OK?'

She managed a smile.

‘Don't.' His voice cracked. ‘I'm not a monster, Isabella. Don't make me into a monster!'

‘Sorry,' she whispered.

He reached out to her. She saw he wanted sex. It was his way of putting things right. She sobbed as he undressed her. It was too late. There was no putting this right.

*

I can't write this, thought Annie, wiping away a tear. She laughed at herself for caring so much about made-up characters. I need a change, she decided. She picked up the first notebook. I'll start from the beginning and do it properly, she thought. It felt different, somehow, knowing she was writing it for Will to read. Would he like it? At one point she inadvertently leant on the wrong key and the computer obligingly swore for her in Will's voice. Annie shrieked and pressed it again. ‘Oh, fuck it,' repeated Will. How on earth had he made it do that? She continued to type until he came in from work.

It was Friday. Annie had spent the whole of the previous day typing furiously and was feeling in need of a change. How am I going to end this book? she wondered. It might go either way. Will phoned in the middle of the morning to ask how much more she had done.

‘I've been reading it between patients. I love it. If you give it a sad ending you're in serious trouble, honey child.'

‘You'll just have to be very nice to me, then, won't you?'

He chuckled. ‘All set for tomorrow?'

‘Nearly,' she mumbled. She'd done a bit of half-hearted packing ready for their trip to Oxford.

‘Listen, the car's playing up. I'll get it sorted out after work. That way we can leave straight after my surgery tomorrow lunchtime.'

‘OK,' said Annie, experiencing another pang of dread about braving the Penn-Eddises.

‘So don't worry if I'm late in.'

‘I won't. Thanks for telling me.'

‘My pleasure, honey. Get back to that computer.'

He rang off and she obeyed. She decided to see if she could save Barney and Isabella's marriage. Perhaps she should trust Will's instincts about the book and write a happy ending, after all.