Two Fridays in April (19 page)

‘Won’t feel it till summer,’ he says, wrapping her in a gown. ‘Planning any holidays this year?’

She nearly laughs: the quintessential hairdresser question. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I might run away someplace, not sure yet.’

He smiles. ‘Sounds interesting,’ he says. ‘You dark horse.’

He has no idea.

She leafs through a magazine and drinks the peppermint tea they always bring her as Damien snips millimetres from her hair. She looks at photos of improbably beautiful celebrities
sitting on designer couches in their perfect homes, usually accompanied by equally attractive spouses and a pedigree dog or two. She wonders how happy they are, or if any of them dream of escape.

She and Jack were happy at first. She was twenty-one: the driving lessons had been the birthday present she’d requested from her parents. Jack was a little older, nice-looking, and an infinitely patient instructor. He always arrived punctually at her house to pick her up, and while he was perfectly pleasant during each lesson, he gave no sign at all that he was attracted to her. She found this unusual – men generally showed an interest – and a little challenging.

And then, as he was dropping her off after her final lesson, as she was opening her door, he spoke.

‘I was wondering if you’d let me take you out to dinner sometime,’ he said – and she realised that she’d been hoping for just such an invitation. And really, their courtship was very charming: Jack was thoughtful and generous and made her feel cherished. She was lucky, she decided, to have found him.

Her parents loved him, were thrilled when she told them he’d proposed. ‘He’s exactly the kind of man I would have chosen for you,’ her mother said, which should probably have made Isobel sit up and take stock – but she went ahead and married him. She was twenty-two by this time, and she liked the idea of being the first of her friends to have a husband, and Jack Carroll was eminently suitable.

And for a while all was well. He loved her, and she loved him, she was sure she did. He was just so nice, how could you not? And then, less than eighteen months into their marriage,
things started to change. Little things about him began to irritate her: the way he’d hum up and down a scale as he gargled his mouthwash, the way he had to mash potatoes before eating them, the way he’d say
excusez-moi
after a belch.

It wasn’t long before all the qualities she’d admired while he was teaching her to drive – his patience, his punctuality, his courtesy – annoyed her as much as an out-of-reach itch. His congeniality made her want to scream.

He was useless to pick a fight with, too. ‘Those trousers do nothing for you,’ she’d tell him. ‘They’re like something a ninety-year-old would wear’ – and he’d look at her in hurt bewilderment before going to change them, instead of telling her to mind her own business, he’d wear what he wanted. Insufferable.

Yet she still responded to him physically. The nights, if a little predictable, were still gratifying, so attentive he was, so obedient to all her orders. The nights made the days bearable, just about – and then she became pregnant.

They’d discussed it, of course. Isobel wanted to wait, having no immediate desire for a child. She was young, she had plenty of time. She knew Jack was eager for fatherhood, but he agreed to put it off for a couple of years. So she was careful, and two years passed – and then one night after a few glasses of something or other she forgot to be careful, and shortly afterwards she realised she was late, and Daphne was on the way.

While the realisation didn’t exactly fill her with maternal joy, it didn’t dismay her unduly either. She was twenty-four, her friends were all getting engaged and married and pregnant
– and Jack had given her the two years she’d asked for. Maybe it was time.

The labour was twenty-three hours of relentless agony, a horror-filled day and night of pain that sliced her in two, over and over and over until she could barely see with it, until her throat was raw with screaming. Never again, she vowed, when Daphne, squirming and bawling, was placed in her exhausted arms. Never, ever again.

She did bond with her tiny daughter, though – after the hell of labour had receded she was able to admire the perfect little creature they’d created. Even so, she found motherhood exhausting – but, predictably, Jack made it as easy as he could. He scheduled his driving lessons to suit whatever daytime running around was needed; in the evenings he took over the nappy changes and the lullabies, and he invariably got up in the night while Isobel slept.

All this had the effect of softening her towards him, and for a while things ran more or less smoothly. Their sex life was eventually restored, and Isobel was careful to keep the packets of contraceptive pills well hidden. When Daphne was three months old a minder was found and Isobel returned to her job behind the reception desk of a local hotel.

Being back in the real world suited her, and if life wasn’t brimming with excitement, it was perfectly fine. Excitement, she decided, was overrated: what mattered was what she had – a loving spouse and a healthy child.

But as the years went by the old discontent wormed its way back, and Jack began to scratch at her nerves again. She knew it was unjustified. He had done nothing untoward; he was a
wonderful husband and father. If only she could stop wanting more.

She determined to live with it. Maybe this was the norm, maybe all wives felt short-changed. Maybe nobody was truly happy in a marriage. And she’d married him for better or worse; nobody had forced her into it.

And then one day when Daphne was five, Isobel went to her dentist for a check-up. And as he examined her teeth, his face close enough to hers that she could feel the heat of his exhalations, he said, in a matter-of-fact voice,
I have to say that I find your scent bewitching
.

And while she was digesting that, and searching for an appropriate response, he removed his little mirror from her mouth and pulled down his mask and peeled off his rubbery blue gloves, and smiled.
Sorry
, he said,
that wasn’t very professional
.

And Isobel lay in bed that night and thought about a man who would use a word like ‘bewitching’. Not professional, not at all. She knew his wife by sight – they lived in the same neighbourhood – and his children. Two, she thought, or was it three?

Shame they were both married. Who knows what might have happened otherwise?

A week later she left work early, claiming a headache. She walked past his dental surgery around the time she knew he finished work, and when he didn’t appear she circled the block and passed it again a few minutes later.

Isobel
. This time he was coming out, his jacket slung across an arm.
Don’t tell me it’s time for another check-up already
.

She smiled.
Hardly
. She indicated the café a few doors away.
I was just about to get a coffee
.

It was so easy. Men were transparent, most of them. Pity Con had turned out to be such a disappointment. Pity every one of them disappoints her eventually.

‘There we go.’

Damien shakes out the black gown and presents a mirror to the back of her head. Isobel thanks him and slips him the usual fiver, and he makes the usual show of reluctance before pocketing it.

‘Nice dress, by the way,’ he says, as he retrieves her coat. ‘Colour is great with your skin tone.’

‘Thanks.’

She wonders how Joseph will react when they meet, if he’ll make any comment about her dress. One forty-five: time to make her way to Stefano’s and find out. If he’s punctual he’ll be there by now, watching the door for a woman wearing orange.

Driving through the traffic-clogged streets, she feels the same mix of anxiety and anticipation that she experienced when she was meeting the other two. Those first few minutes, the sense that every word, every gesture, every hair on your head is being assessed … and seeing him for the first time can be disconcerting too, adjusting to a voice you’d maybe imagined differently, an accent you mightn’t have been expecting, a face that looks older or heavier or more pockmarked than you were hoping for.

She finds a parking spot and walks the short distance to the restaurant, the breeze cold against her face, the clouds packed tight overhead, full of unshed rain. A minute to two: perfect timing. As she approaches Stefano’s she unbuttons her coat, lets
a slice of orange show through. She pushes open the door and walks in, feeling warm air, smelling melted cheese.

She stands on the threshold, taking stock. Less than half of the tables are filled, the lunchtime rush on the wane. Only two are occupied by men on their own, neither of whom resembles the photo on her laptop, neither of whom looks in her direction. One taps at a mobile phone, a cup sitting on the table before him; the other reads a newspaper.

A waiter approaches. ‘Table for one,
signora
?’

She hesitates. He’s clearly not here: she should leave. Permissible for the woman to be late, unforgivable for the man. Then again, everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt.

She indicates a vacant table to the rear. ‘Perhaps I could sit there?’ Visible from the front, but discreet enough not to attract particular attention.

‘Certainly,
signora
.’ He leads her across the room, takes her coat, hands her a menu. ‘You like a drink?’

‘A glass of Shiraz, thank you.’

She doesn’t normally drink during the day, would have chosen sparkling water if her date had been here. Now she feels she needs some ammunition.

She unwinds her scarf and drapes it across the back of her chair. She’ll give him a few minutes, bide her time – and if he turns up with a damn good excuse and sincere apology she may overlook this.

The Shiraz is fractionally too cold. She takes a tiny sip and glances towards the door – and sees an elderly woman whose face looks vaguely familiar entering the café and crossing the floor. Who is she? Grey padded jacket above what looks like
the bottom half of a tracksuit, hideous trainers beneath. The woman goes through to the Ladies – and as soon as she vanishes, Isobel remembers.

Just her luck to pick the same café as Daphne’s mother-in-law for lunch. What is she called? Some funny little name that escapes Isobel just now. Always looks grimly determined.

She opens the menu. Better not be spotted when the woman emerges from the loo: she may feel she has to come over and say hello, and Joseph may arrive in the middle of it. Awkward.

Bruschetta, carbonara, ravioli, pizza: as predictable an Italian menu as a politician’s election promises. Her appetite is fading anyway, along with her expectations. Five past two now, twenty minutes late. She’ll give him five more minutes.

From the corner of her eye she sees the toilet door open. She keeps her head down, prays she won’t be spotted – but to her dismay the woman turns and looks straight in her direction, and approaches. Lord, can she be about to suggest that they eat
together
? What then?

The ensuing conversation is awkward. Isobel, preoccupied with dread that her date is suddenly going to appear, struggles to find the polite small talk that usually comes so easily to her. In consequence, when her companion makes a reference to Una’s birthday, Isobel enquires unthinkingly about a party.

She’s immediately mortified – sounds like she’s forgotten Finn’s anniversary – and judging by the other woman’s tart response, that must be exactly what she’s thinking too. How clumsy, how badly done – and too late now to offer sympathies, which would sound horribly belated.

Flustered, Isobel makes some inane remark about the
weather, and how the wine is an attempt to warm herself up – now she sounds like an alcoholic making excuses. Thankfully, the other woman takes her leave at that stage, obviously having had enough.

Isobel watches as she heads straight for the café door: not staying to eat after all, then. Bit cheeky, coming in from the street just to use the loo. And the state of her: you’d take her for homeless if you didn’t know her. Granted, she’s had a lot to cope with – Finn, the husband with Alzheimer’s – but, honestly, she could take a bit more care with her appearance.

After another minute or so Isobel gets to her feet: enough of this. She raises an arm and catches the eye of the waiter who took her order. ‘My coat,’ she says, ‘and the bill.’ She pays and walks out, leaving most of the wine behind. Let him think what he likes.

Making her way back to the car, she feels horribly conspicuous. She wonders if Joseph, or whatever he’s called, is parked somewhere, watching her. Maybe he’s been there all the time, waiting to see how long she’d wait for him, getting his kicks by observing her humiliation.

She drives to a multiplex cinema and chooses the least offensive of the offerings. She sits in the dark, each small movement of her head bringing a waft of the honey-scented conditioner Damien uses.

She thinks about being stood up at the age of fifty-nine by a man who calls her Amanda.

She thinks about her only child, and the distance between them.

She thinks about living every day with someone who feels
nothing for you, and who would not be at all heartbroken if you died.

Jack might miss her if she died. Oh, not in a my-world-is-going-to-end kind of way, not any more, but it might affect him on some level. In the middle of doing something else – driving to pick up a customer, maybe, or grilling a chop for his dinner – he might find himself thinking about her; he might remember a time when they were happy together. It might cause him a momentary pang.

She wonders if Daphne would miss her at all.