The Next Best Thing (21 page)

‘Bye then,’ he said, and as the taxi pulled away he blew her a kiss.

When she got into the driving seat, Jane had to adjust the seat, sliding it forward to the normal position, noting the disparity between the length of his legs and hers. It would be three whole
weeks before they met again.

‘Who was that man?’ asked Liberty. ‘Why did he have your keys?’

‘He just helped do something with the car,’ she said, surprised by the glibness of her lie, ‘and then I forgot to take the keys back. Can I have one of your marzipan
angels?’

While Jane and Rupert were getting romantic with each other in the Victoria and Albert Museum, Will was getting romantic with himself in the London Library, dreaming of the
glory to come. His new book would be even better received than his last, offering as it did another penetrating insight into a vanishing culture. Like all great travel writers, he had a talent for
drawing lessons from backward tribes and pointing out moral parallels with the modern world.

In front of him on the desk was a pile of relevant books:
Black Elk Speaks, The Wind is my Mother, The Way of the Shaman.
Today was his last opportunity for research before his creative
life was put on hold for the enforced tedium of the Christmas break. It infuriated Will that he had to play along with the conventions of organised society. He was an artist, so why should he be
bothered with Christmas shopping, school holidays and the inconvenient closing hours of his resource libraries?

He dropped
Neither Wolf Nor Dog
back on the heap and turned instead to an unrelated work by his mentor Wilfred Thesiger that he always carried with him.

‘Mountains have always attracted me,’
he read,
‘early in 1952 I invited the mountaineer Eric Shipton to lunch with me at the Travellers Club when he suggested I travel
in Hunza in northern Pakistan.’

That was more like it, that was how Will’s life should be. He didn’t suppose Wilfred Thesiger had to worry about playing happy families round a turkey, he would have gone off for
years at a time to fulfil his thirst for travel. There was a huge world out there, it seemed a crime to stagnate at home instead. A life less ordinary, that was what Will deserved.

He picked up another favourite,
The (treat Railway Bazaar,
and read with envy of Paul Theroux’s escape by train to Istanbul.

I was doing a bunk, myself: I hadn’t nailed my colours to the mast; I had no job — no-one would notice me falling silent, kissing my wife, and boarding the 15.30 alone . . . the
train was rumbling through Clapham, I decided that travel was flight and pursuit in equal parts
. . .’

Yes indeed, Paul, thought Will, you and I both, we understand the importance of flight and pursuit, of going out in search of enlightenment rather than sinking slowly into homely nothingness.
There was no doubt about it, Will would soon need to be making a journey of his own.

He decided to call it a day; the lights on his bike were on the blink and he wanted to get home before it got dark. He gathered up his papers into the battered old leather briefcase that had
served him well for three decades. He nodded at the girl at the desk who had fancied him for ages – he knew what that blush meant, every time he caught her eye — and went outside to
unlock his bike. It was an old-fashioned black sit-up-and-beg type, with a wicker basket attached to the front. It was not out of character, he thought with a smile, for him to have a bike that was
unlike every other one in the rack.

The journey home was a good opportunity for reflection, and today Will’s thoughts were centred around the theme of an extraordinary mind trapped in a life of domestic routine. He wondered
whether he wasn’t putting Jane into an unfair position. Would she really want to be held responsible for holding him back, for being the brakes on his creative talent? She was far from being
a nag, he had her too well-schooled for that, but it was the reality of her and Liberty that kept him grounded in smallness.

He let himself into the house and picked up a handful of envelopes from the mat. On his one-to-ten scale of dull bourgeois habits, the sending of Christmas cards stood at around eight, and rose
to ten when the cards contained round-robin letters. One of the envelopes felt suspiciously thick, and Will was not disappointed when he ripped it open.

‘What a year!’
it began. ‘
A
promotion for Jim, a great first eleven season for Alex, a gold life-saving badge for Chloe, and as if all that wasn’t enough, we
rounded off with a super autumn half-term break in Tuscany! Lucky for us all I’d been taking Italian evening classes!’

Christ almighty, thought Will, I should do Jane a favour and file it straight in the bin. She always felt obliged to reply to pitiful letters like this, didn’t seem to have learned about
moving on, about drawing a line, about not bothering to stay in touch with bores. He threw the cards down on the kitchen table and filled the kettle to make himself a herbal tea. Liberty’s
glittery angel stood on the windowsill, a testimony to what can be achieved with toilet rolls and kitchen foil. Will smiled at the thought of his daughter; he loved her, of course, but that
didn’t mean he needed to see her every day. His experience with his sons taught him that kids didn’t disappear just because you were off the scene for a bit. Liberty would still be
there when he got back from his travels, however long they took.

He heard a key in the lock, then Liberty came running downstairs to see him.

‘Hallo, big face,’ he said. ‘Have you broken up?’

Liberty nodded and offered him her last marzipan angel.

‘You can go and get changed then,’ he said, helping himself, ‘hang up that vile uniform and wear something normal for a change.’

Jane frowned at him as she came into the kitchen.

She didn’t want Will giving Liberty a complex about her school clothes. It was bad enough as it was getting her dressed in the morning, without him adding his unhelpful comments.

‘You’re back early,’ she said, taking off her coat and throwing it onto the sofa.

‘It’s my concession to Christmas,’ he said, ‘my own little take on the seasonal go-slow, although naturally I despise the idea of normal life grinding to a halt for
spurious religious reasons. A simple pagan festival appropriated by a corrupt and powerful church, and now degenerated into a materialistic riot of greed and gluttony.’

‘Killjoy,’ said Jane.

‘What’s materialistic?’ asked Liberty.

‘It’s wanting things,’ said Jane, ‘you know all about that. And gluttony means eating too much.’

‘Here’s a thing,’ said Will, holding up his finger as a prelude to the important information about to follow. ‘Did you know that the average preparation time for a meal
twenty years ago was sixty minutes, and today it is just thirteen minutes. So you should count yourself lucky!’ ‘Another one of Dad’s useless facts,’ said Liberty,
unimpressed.

He was like a magpie, thought Jane, picking up shiny nuggets of information that he brought home to the family nest and expected them all to admire.

Will looked Jane up and down as she wiped the table clean and set out a glass of milk and a min I chocolate log for Liberty. She was looking pretty today in a slightly prissy way, wearing a neat
green cardigan, and even a touch of make-up, which she didn’t normally bother with during the day.

‘You look a bit dolled-up,’ he said. ‘A bit Home Counties come to town, if you don’t mind my saying so. Have you been on a date or something?’

Jane was annoyed to feel herself blushing. ‘You know I often go out on Friday afternoons,’ she said, plunging the dishes into the sink. ‘It’s my cinema day.’

‘So it is,’ he said, like a well-meaning uncle. ‘What did you see, any good?’

‘I didn’t go actually, not today. I went to the V&A instead.’

So far, so truthful, there was no point in lying.

‘What’s the viannay?’

‘A museum, darling.’

‘Ugh, boring. I hate museums.’

‘How perfect,’ said Will, ‘pretending you’re up from the shires in your little twinset to take in our national art treasures. Leaving home at ten o’clock on a cheap
day return, and hurrying back in time to make your husband’s dinner. It’s such a charming image, it’s almost enough to make me marry you and whisk you off to the
shires.’

Was this really how he saw her? Maybe she should tell him she had been necking with her boyfriend in the family car, that might give him something to think about.

‘It’s not a twinset,’ she said, ‘they don’t match.’

‘It still looks like something your mother would have worn.’

He never seemed to tire of his familiar themes, but after spending an afternoon with Rupert, Jane suddenly didn’t see why she should put up with it any more.

‘Just cut it out, Will,’ she said.

The sharpness in her tone surprised him; she never used to take offence at his teasing, but this was fast becoming something of a habit.

‘Uh oh!’ he said. ‘Do I detect a sense-of-humour failure?’

‘No, Will, it wasn’t funny in the first place. You do whatever you like all the time, so don’t have a go at me for seeking the occasional diversion from the endless treadmill
of work and home and . . . boring, boring Christmas.’

She flung the cloth at the sink and sank down in a chair.

‘Mummy, Christmas isn’t boring, I love Christmas!’

Liberty flung her arms round Jane’s neck, then remembered something. She ran over to her school bag and took out a Christmas card she had made for her parents. It featured a tall
glamour-puss in full evening dress exposing an impressive cleavage and tiny stiletto shoes. Jane recognised that this was meant to be her; she was used to Liberty’s flattering
interpretations. The goddess was flanked on either side by two figures half her size: one was a flat-chested version of herself and clearly supposed to be Liberty, and the other was dressed like a
toy soldier and barely came up to the woman’s navel.

Will came over to take a look. ‘How come I’m only the same height as you, Liberty?’ he complained. ‘You know I’m as tall as Mummy.’

‘Only when you’re wearing your stacks,’ she said, borrowing the word Jane used when she wanted to be rude about a pair of Will’s shoes that had a slight heel.

‘Thank you, Liberty, it’s lovely,’ said Jane, setting it out in pride of place on the table. She sat down and pulled her daughter onto her lap, kissing the back of her head.
Her hair smelt delicious.

‘Boudicca didn’t put her dad in her picture, only her mum,’ said Liberty. ‘They’re getting divorced. I think divorce is dumb, don’t you?’

Jane thought how terrifying it would be if children ruled the world. They saw everything in such black and white terms.

‘It’s not what anyone would choose,’ she said carefully, ‘but sometimes things don’t work out and people don’t have any choice. And it can be better in the
long term, although it’s difficult at the time.’

‘Couldn’t happen to me and Mum, though, could it?’ said Will. ‘We’re not married so we can’t get divorced.’

‘Why aren’t you married?’

‘It’s not necessary these days,’ said Jane quickly, ‘it’s not like women are dependent on men the way they used to be.’

‘What’s “dependent” mean?’

‘It means you have to wait to be given everything, instead of getting it for yourself,’ Jane said.

‘And your mother is an independent woman,’ said Will, ‘she’s more than capable of paddling her own canoe.’

Am I, though? Jane wondered. Her version of independence had been entirely crafted around her life with Will.

‘I forgot to say,’ he said, as if on cue to remind her, ‘I managed to get three tickets for that show you wanted to see on Saturday. Like gold dust they are, unless you know
the right people. You’ll love it, Liberty, and it’s that rare thing, a play for children that might even entertain adults.’

‘Daddy!’ Liberty threw herself into his arms. ‘You’re the best daddy in the world!’

‘How lovely, I thought you’d forgotten,’ said Jane.

He was glad to see she’d lost that spikiness, he didn’t like the way that was going.

‘Forget my family? I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘What’s more, I think I’ll make us all dinner tonight. I feel a surge of creative cooking coming on.’

He might as well push the boat out, it was easy enough to earn a little gratitude.

Jane smiled up at him gratefully. This was what it was all about: a happy nuclear family, enveloping their child with love as they prepared to bunker down for the two-week Christmas lock-in.
This was her real life, the life she had chosen. And it certainly should not include flirting with her friend’s fiance on her afternoons off. What had she been thinking of?

Rupert didn’t stay long at the office, just long enough to tie up a few loose ends. He straightened up his desk and thought how depressing it was that in a couple of
weeks he would be back to face it. He would rather have swept it all into the bin and never crossed the threshold again. Usually when he went on holiday there would be a surge of adrenaline to get
everything out of the way before he left, and then the euphoria of getting on the plane and feeling he was enjoying a well-earned rest. But this time he felt no more enthusiasm for the holiday than
he did for his job. The thought of going to Chile with Lydia filled him with nothing but cold indifference. He’d rather be spending Christmas in his house in France, or else watching telly in
the flat. With Jane.

When he got home, Lydia had already filled a large suitcase that was lying open on top of the bed. She herself was in the bath, flicking through a copy of
London Property News.

‘Do you know, darling, I’m beginning to wonder if we wouldn’t be better off moving rather than doing this place up.’

Rupert opened a cupboard door and began pulling out some underwear. It was a damned nuisance that they were going to a hot desert
and
a bloody glacier. Why couldn’t they do one or
the other? It was typical of Lydia’s greed that they had to pack for both. Woollen socks would be needed, but he’d also need to find some cotton ones. They should be on the top shelf,
along with his summer clothes. He reached up and pulled out three pairs of shorts, throwing them onto the open suitcase.