The New Neighbours (46 page)

“I asked her how old she was,” said WPC Ford, “and she told me she was seventeen. I didn't really believe her, but I had no way of disproving it. The man concerned had made himself scarce, so he obviously knew she was a minor. They'd been smoking pot.”

“Pot? Oh my God!”

“To be honest, Mrs Haven, I don't think Chantal realised it wasn't an ordinary cigarette,” admitted WPC Ford, “The man, Dan, had given it to her. It may be one of the reasons she had sex with him.”

Had sex with him. How bald those words sounded, no question of making love, no emotional involvement, just had sex.

“You mean it was this thing, date rape?”

“Not exactly no, but I expect she was more relaxed about it that she otherwise might have been.” The policewoman got to her feet.

“What will happen now?” Angela asked. “What will happen to Chantal?”

“Nothing for the moment,” WPC Ford replied. “I shall report back and things will go from there. It's not Chantal who has broken the law.”

When the policewoman had gone, Angela sat in the kitchen and tried to come to terms with what she'd heard. She felt angry and guilty at the same time. Angry with Chantal, how could she have behaved like that? Angry with Ian, if he hadn't walked out none of this would have happened, Chantal would have had both her parents to watch over her. But mostly guilty. She should have been there more for Chantal. She should have seen the signs. She should have kept a tighter control, been stricter about times of going out and being home. If she hadn't gone out last night, and then stayed over, she might have prevented it all. She would have known that Chantal was late and taken steps to find her. She shouldn't have left it to Annabel. She'd have gone round to the student house and fetched her home. Now she had two daughters who were in trouble and she knew it was all her fault. She should have been there for them and taken better care of them.

Another voice inside said that was ridiculous, that she'd done all she could, that she had to go out to work to keep the family going, that other young teenage girls wore outrageous clothes, short skirts, tight jeans and skimpy tops, without ending up in bed with young men who knew they were under age. She heard this voice, but it brought her no comfort, she knew she should have recognised the signs.

Then another thought hit her, suppose Chantal was pregnant too. The bubble of happiness to which she had awakened this morning had burst with a vengeance, and a grey cloud enveloped her. She felt suddenly exhausted, as if there was a great weight on her shoulders. What the hell would Ian say when he heard this latest. She'd have to tell him, once she'd faced Chantal with it.

Ian. For a moment she allowed him to drift to the forefront of her mind. Two months ago he had telephoned and asked her out for a drink. “Just need to have a chat about a few things,” he said casually, but Angela's heart sank. He was going to ask her for a divorce at last. What would she say? Yes, she supposed. After all, there was no going back, and she was beginning to get used to being without him. It still hurt, but she had to be realistic, even if she blocked the divorce now, he would get it in the long run, all he had to do was wait.

Dignity. That's what she needed, she decided. She would accept his suggestion that the separation became formalised with dignity, and not allow him to see how much he could still hurt her.

They arranged to meet in a quiet pub near the cathedral. Ian had offered to come and pick her up, but Angela had refused.

“No,” she said. “I don't want the girls to see us going out together. It might send out the wrong signals. I want everything finally sorted before we have to bring them into it anymore.”

“Whatever you say,” Ian agreed, but she had him worried. He had decided to tell her that Desirée had left. He knew there could be no instant re-instatement into his family, he had forfeited the right to be there through his own stupidity, and he had long ago realised his mistake. Now he wanted to discover if there was any way, sometime in the future, that perhaps they might repair the damage he had caused, perhaps pick up the pieces and try again. Because Annabel had discovered that Desirée had left him, he would have to make a move, and sooner rather than later, for he knew it was unfair to expect her to keep his secret for too long. Now, however, Angela was talking of “finally sorting things out”. It sounded as if she had made up her mind and was going to ask for a divorce at last. She sounded so calm and distant as they made the arrangement to meet. Maybe he shouldn't tell her about Desirée leaving after all, should just accept that his actions had brought about the end of their marriage and that it was already too late to pick up any pieces.

He was waiting in the bar when Angela arrived. She was late, because she had changed her clothes three times before she was satisfied with what she was wearing. Finally, she settled for a smart navy trouser suit. It was one of the few things that she had bought since he had left. It was well cut and she felt good in it. It would give her confidence. She had swept her hair back off her face, which emphasised the line of her cheek bones, applied make-up carefully and having surveyed herself in the mirror decided that she would do.

“Where are you off to?” Annabel asked as Angela looked in to say goodbye.

“Meeting,” Angela said succinctly. “Shan't be late. Bye!”

Chantal took even less notice of her leaving, glued to her favourite soap on the television. Her eyes never left the screen, she simply waved a hand over the back of the sofa in farewell.

Ian got up as she joined him at the table. He didn't kiss her cheek, or even touch her hand in greeting, he simply smiled at her and said, “Hi.” She settled herself opposite him and he went on, “What would you like to drink, the usual?”

“Yes please, scotch and ginger.” That would surprise him, thought the part of her that was watching the whole scene from outside, she'd always drunk gin and tonic, because he did. Since his departure she had changed her preference to scotch and ginger… a small piece of juvenile defiance!

Ian got her a large one without comment, though he wondered what other little things had changed in his absence, and a usual, much-needed, gin for himself. Carrying them back to the table he considered how he should start their conversation. He had rehearsed several openings to himself at home, but seeing her sitting there, so cool, calm and confident, his own confidence deserted him. He put the drinks down on the table and then sat down himself. For a moment, they sat in silence, and Angela sipped her drink. She wasn't going to help him, she had decided. If he wanted a divorce, he was going to have to ask for it himself. She wouldn't make life difficult for him, but she sure as hell wasn't going to make it easy either. Dignity. Dignity would prevail.

“How are the girls?” he asked at last.

“Fine,” Angela replied. “I know they would have sent their love if they'd known I was coming to meet you.”

“Where do they think you are?” he enquired.

“At a meeting,” she replied. “They didn't query it. They've got used to the fact that I have to go out or work late some evenings.”

“Mmm, I suppose they have.” Ian looked across at her. Silence lapsed again. They were getting nowhere. He must take the plunge. He took a deep breath and said, “Angela, we must talk.”

“Yes, you said on the phone.”

“Yes, well we must.” He rubbed his cheek with his hand, as if massaging his face. Angela readily recognised this unconscious sign of uncertainty. “It's just, well I don't quite know how to put this.”

“If you've something to say, you'd better get on and spit it out,” Angela said coolly. She put down her glass and looked him in the eye across the table. “For God's sake, get on with it, Ian.”

“Yes, I'm sorry. It isn't easy.”

“Then I'd better say it for you,” said Angela tersely. “You and Desirée have decided you want to get married, and so you want a divorce as soon as possible. Don't worry, I won't stand in your way…” Her voice trailed away as she saw him shaking his head as if in disbelief. “Well,” she rejoined sharply, “isn't that what this is all about?”

“No,” Ian said quietly. “It isn't.”

Dignity! She thought, Keep your dignity. So she said nothing and waited for him to explain exactly why they were there.

“Angela, I have something to tell you. Annabel knows already. I didn't tell her, she found out by chance, but now she knows it is only fair that you should know too.” He smiled wryly, “I no longer live with Desirée. We've split up. She's moved on.”

Angela stared at him in disbelief. “What are you saying?” she asked.

“I'm saying that there is no Desirée in my life any more, and that I wish there never had been.”

“Why? I mean. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it concerns you the most. You are still my wife. The girls are still my children.”

“Didn't suit you to remember that when you wanted Desirée, did it?” said Angela, bitterly.

“If you want me to say that I'm sorry, I will,” began Ian.

“It's a bit late for that, don't you think?” Angela snapped.

For a moment, Ian didn't answer, then he said, “Did you come here tonight to ask me for a divorce? Is that what you meant when you said that things should be finally sorted out?”

The question threw her and she glowered at him. “No,” she admitted at last, “but I assumed we had reached the stage when you wanted it and we were going to have to discuss divorce. After all we can't really go on as we are, can we?”

“So, what shall we do? Do you want a divorce?”

She looked at him for a long moment, as if considering. “No,” she said finally, “not at the moment, but if you think you can come waltzing back into our lives simply because your mistress has deserted you, you've got another…”

“I don't,” Ian interrupted. “I promise you I never thought that.”

“So, what did you think?”

“I thought I would ask you if, one day, you might ever forgive me for what I did to you and the girls,” he said simply.

Angela felt the tears pricking her eyes, and she blinked them away. “Oh Ian, I don't know. It's too late. Too late to go back to how we were. We're not even the same people anymore.”

“I know that,” he agreed, “I'm not asking you to turn the clock back. I'm not asking for me to come back home, either. I'm just asking if I can see you sometimes, for a drink, or for dinner. Is that too much to ask?”

“I don't know,” Angela repeated.

“Is there someone else?” he asked tentatively. “Someone else you're seeing?”

Angela sighed. “No,” she said, “there's no one else.” She stood up abruptly. “I'm sorry, Ian,” she said distractedly, “I can't discuss this anymore now. I have to go home.”

He got to his feet as well. “Can I phone you?” he asked. “Please?”

She looked at him for a long time and then said, “Call me at work. I don't want any speculation on the part of the girls.” And she walked out of the pub into the night.

It was several days before he rang, and during those days she had thought of little but Ian, and what he had said. Could they possibly get back together again? They were certainly different people from the couple who had married all those years ago. After the hurt and the upheaval, could they really rebuild their marriage? It would be a risk and she didn't know if it would be worth taking it. She had held out against divorce in the hope that Ian might one day come to his senses, and now that he had, she wasn't certain if it was what she wanted after all. How would the girls feel? Would they welcome him back with open arms, or would they feel that his betrayal and desertion had been too great to forgive? She knew they still loved him, but would they be able to accept him back into the family again? One thing was for sure, if there were any moves in that direction they would be made very slowly.

When he did phone, it was to ask her out for a meal. Would she join him for dinner one night this week? She was free every night, but she wasn't going to tell him that. She hummed and ha-ed and then agreed to Thursday, and pleading another evening meeting to the girls, left the house feeling an inner turmoil, as if she were going to meet an illicit lover.

The evening had been a success. They had not discussed the things that lay between them, those were not on the agenda. They talked about a play they both wanted to see, about how Annabel was getting on at the college, Chantal at Chapmans, incidents at work, normal everyday things that any couple might discuss. They found they were laughing a good deal, just like they used to, and when the evening was over, they parted easily.

“When I come for the girls at the weekend as arranged,” Ian said, “may I come in?”

“If you want to,” Angela replied.

After their first date, they met often. They met as they used to in the old days, going for a walk by the river, meeting for a quick drink after work, or at lunchtime. They went to an organ recital in the cathedral, and once even went to the zoo. They grew more relaxed in each other's company, but Ian realised that nothing could be hurried. He knew that he was on trial, that he must woo his wife, as he had before, but he became more and more determined that they should try to start their married life again. She allowed him to kiss her cheek in greeting and at parting, but that was as near as she would let him come. Every time he saw her, he ached to take her in his arms, to beg her forgiveness and ask her to take him back, but he was terrified if he moved too quickly she would back off, and decide that she had learned to live without him.

Angela held on to her dignity and her pride, determined to keep him at arms' length until she knew how she really felt, but she was beginning to think there might be some future for them if Ian really wanted to try again. He came to her with the same freshness that he had when they had first met, he made her laugh, she could talk to him or be silent without awkwardness, but most of all, he still had the ability to stir her, so that her heart pounded when she caught sight of him, when he touched her hand, when his face was lit by his smile.