That Was Then Read online

  ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘ we have to think of the girl. There’s going to be enough suits there without us adding to them.’

  Thinking of the girl, I concluded that he might be right. So Nozz it was. Though what the Drages’ seriously well-heeled friends would make of him was hard to imagine.

  At Bouvier’s I’d spent most of the past few days organising the transportation, accurate labelling and future sale of Mrs Rymer’s pieces. I found that I thought of her a good deal as I went about this task, not as she now must surely be – old, shapeless, increasingly androgynous, perhaps confused, eking out her days in the nursing home – but as she must have been when she won the heart of the handsome enemy. I wondered how many of the other people at the home had the smallest inkling of her reckless secret past. Did she have a photograph on her dressing table, or was that the only one that she’d left behind in the bungalow? And where was that photograph now? Had her son and daughter-in-law returned it to her when they sold the house? Or had they, either having regard to her wishes or in spite of them, taken it with them? And if the latter, was it proudly and openly displayed, or lying face down in some box room? As I carried out a more detailed examination of the old lady’s possessions, and made my notes and contacted salerooms I’d been accompanied by a shadow of sadness – a glimpse of something just out of view which, if I attempted to catch it, melted and dispersed and refused to make itself known. Old Mrs Rymer, whom I had never met and about whom I knew scarcely anything, had all unwittingly become a player in my life.

  When Ian said he would be somewhere, he was always there, a few minutes before the appointed time and focused on the imminent arrival of whoever he was due to meet. Not for him the casual, disengaged pose – reading the paper, talking on the mobile, gazing into space. When Ian met you, you knew you had been met. In the very early days of our relationship I had found this charming, with its implication that I alone mattered most in the world. A little later I began to suspect that it was not I that mattered, but the sacred principle of good time-keeping. In any case I hadn’t the slightest doubt that Ian would be there, just a few metres beyond the barrier, looking out for me when I arrived.

  It was therefore a bit of a surprise when my eye didn’t alight on him at once. I’d scanned the dozen or so people obviously waiting, and was making the return scan, more slowly, when a hand appeared, scything up and down before my face, and his voice said:

  ‘Here I am.’

  ‘Oh – hello. Why didn’t I spot you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘You looked right through me about twice.’

  ‘Did I? Sorry.’

  ‘Think nothing of it.’ Before I could take evasive action, he grasped my elbow and began steering me through the early evening crowds towards the forecourt. Fortunately a weaving derelict near the news-stand caused us to separate, and by transferring my bag from one shoulder to the other I managed tactfully to elude the return of the guiding hand. It was another habit which had once made my heart leap and now caused it to wince.

  As we emerged he said. ‘I brought the car – I’m over there.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered.’

  ‘Nonsense. Now that I’m a fully paid-up Londoner I frankly begrudge a cab, and we don’t want to be racketing around on public transport at our age.’

  ‘No …’ I knew Ian well enough not be put out by the unconscious, companionable ageism – but for some reason I was piqued by that ‘fully paid-up Londoner’. Oh, he was, was he? So soon? And what did that make me – a provincial lady?

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on, unlocking the black Toyota. ‘I thought we’d head out, in this weather. I booked a table at the Boat-house.’

  ‘Fine.’

  The Boathouse was, as its name suggested, on the river at Chiswick – a perfectly OK restaurant rendered more desirable by its location. But its choice as the venue for dinner left me slightly disgruntled. Instead of the smart, hot, buzzy metropolitan eaterie I’d looked forward to, the fully paid-up Londoner was taking his provincial ex somewhere touristy.

  It took us about half an hour to get there, and after a little general conversation Ian put on some music. It wasn’t until we were crossing the bridge that I realised why I hadn’t recognised him at Victoria. It was the shirt.

  I’d noticed it, of course, but had not till now got my mind round it. By any standards it was a darn nice shirt: heavy, soft, silky cotton in a deep bottle green, loosely cut with dropped shoulders. It was the kind of luxurious casual garment that the old Ian would never have bought. He paid a lot for formal and work clothes, in which he never looked less than immaculate, and regarded the rest as make-weights which it wasn’t worth forking out for. His wardrobe at home had had a shelf full of inexpensive felted sweatshirts, unflattering shorts and comfort-cut jeans. This was a whole different thing.

  He was also wearing it right, with the sleeves loosely rolled to halfway up the forearm and plenty of slack at the waist – he was usually a rather over-assiduous tucker-in. Cream trousers and shirt were held in place by a nice, narrow plaited leather belt.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, glancing at me as we rolled down the other side of the bridge. ‘I forgot to say – you look nice.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘So do you.’

  You could sit outside at the Boathouse. There was a wide wooden verandah with a painted balustrade, and a jetty sticking out into the river beyond that, where you could stroll with a drink, or just lean on the rail and watch the Thames slip by. Ian had thoughtfully booked a table in the covered part of the verandah where we would have the best of both worlds. Wandering up the jetty after we’d ordered, furnished with a large, tinkling g and t, I began to unwind and to feel once again perfectly ready to enjoy myself. Ian was right – who needed the sweat and swank of a West End brasserie on an evening like this?

  ‘This is nice,’ I conceded. ‘Good choice.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so, I wanted us to go somewhere special. It’s a touch cheesy, I know, but I’ve always liked it.’

  ‘I spoke to Ben about the cricket. He would like to go.’

  ‘Great. In that case I’ll snap up the tickets. We’ll be much better off at the Oval, there are fewer braying blazer types than at Lords.’

  ‘I can believe it.’

  He took a swig of his beer. ‘Eve, I’ve been meaning to say – sorry I inflicted Clive on you the other evening.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I lied, ‘I didn’t mind.’

  ‘No, but he and his broken heart are becoming a bit of a bore. I’m afraid I just selfishly sought to spread the load.’

  ‘I know, but that’s all right. I’d have done the same.’

  ‘It’s such a pity he can’t meet some nice sympathetic woman to draw the fire a bit,’ Ian said. ‘I don’t mean to sound patronising.’

  ‘No, I agree with you, but it’s not going to happen. Clive’s is a classic case of absence making the heart grow fonder.’

  ‘It’s all so dismal!’ exclaimed Ian, quite impatiently. ‘The thought of Clive, at his age, moping about ad infinitum. Besides which, if he upped and took up with someone, Helen might see him in a different light.’

  I shook my head. ‘She’d breathe a huge sigh of relief.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  The waiter came and told us our starters were ready. As we walked back to the table I entertained the wild surmise that Ian had envisaged me as the nice sympathetic woman with whom Clive might take up … But I dismissed it as utterly ridiculous.

  We ate with gusto and discussed the food. It had always been our contention, Ian’s and mine, that much restaurant eating was emperor’s-new-clothes stuff, and that it was the duty of the diner-out to scrape away the extras and see how much and of what temperature was left, before even thinking of moving on to flavour. But we didn’t do that tonight because this was a date, of sorts, and it would have been ungallant of both of us. Just the same I waited for him to open the batting on his charg
rilled goat’s cheese (yummy and plentiful) and was able honestly to counter with my polenta and black olive sauce (parts excellent, whole a bit confusing). This, and a lovely South African sauvignon, got us laughing and I would have said it was quite like old times, only it was rather better than that.

  With the lamb cutlets – pinker than Ian liked them, but perfect for me, so that was all right – I became mellow. We were after all in the course of rediscovering one another in a new, gentler light, a process not vouchsafed to many estranged couples.

  ‘So how’s life?’ I asked. ‘ You look awfully well.’

  ‘I am, thanks for asking.’

  ‘And business?’ Ian was co-director of Inline, a small, but smart and expanding information technology outfit, specialising in systems for business in Europe. He was by far the oldest person there, but I had no doubt that not a day went by without the rest of the Inliners thanking their lucky stars they had him on the team.

  ‘It’s good. We’ve just pulled off rather a pleasing deal with a Dutch return-to-work scheme. We beat off some quite impressive competition. Malcolm’s even thinking of getting some new premises on the strength of it. And even though I’m usually the voice of caution as you know, on this occasion I think he may be right. King’s Cross isn’t doing us any favours, it’s probably adding ten per cent effort to every sale we make.’

  ‘As much as that?’

  ‘Oh, for sure. It’s not a measurable effect, but I’d be prepared to bet on it. Presentation’s not everything, but it is something, and I believe we’ve reached the point where we owe ourselves something a bit smarter.’

  ‘So where will you be looking?’

  ‘Further in. I rather favour somewhere like Bloomsbury – casting against the role if you like. But Malcolm will probaby want the full monty, you know him, West End or bust.’

  We laughed. Malcolm at forty-five was a hot-headed youth compared to Ian and they both played up the differences for all they were worth.

  ‘Do you—’

  ‘Eve, I—’

  We had both spoken at once. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘ You first.’

  ‘Um—’ he frowned, and then paused as the waiter removed our plates and refilled my glass. ‘ Shall we get another of those? Same again please.’

  If it had been anyone but Ian I’d have suspected him of trying to get me squiffy. ‘ Yes?’

  ‘I don’t want to make too much of this – be portentous about it or anything—’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’ I was teasing but he didn’t smile. ‘ Spit it out, then.’

  ‘It’s just that I wanted to tell you I’ve formed an attachment.’

  Considering how much forethought he must have given to this announcement, he’d picked a curious form of words. So much so that it took a minute or two for his meaning to become clear. It still hadn’t, quite, when I answered automatically:

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ His expression begged me to cotton on. ‘I see.’

  ‘In spite of our changed circumstances I wanted you to know from me rather than find out via some other means.’

  ‘Right.’

  He twiddled the stem of his glass before looking at me with the sort of directness that is the clearest possible indication of the longing to look elsewhere. ‘Also, of course, I wanted you to know before Mel or Ben.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You agree that’s right.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Good.’ He sat back, placing his hands on the edge of the table as if about to get up, then leaned forward again. ‘So – that’s it really. I don’t want to burden you with far more than you could possibly want to know.’

  ‘Thank you, how kind.’ There was no need for that particular little grace note, but I threw it in anyway. Ian looked pained.

  ‘I’m sorry, Eve, I don’t seem to be handling this very well.

  ‘You’re doing fine.’

  ‘It need not alter our relationship in the least. I very much hope it won’t. Maybe I’m being complacent, but I really believe we’ve managed this whole thing exceptionally well, with the minimum of upheaval and no bloodletting. Speaking for myself I feel we have a pretty unshakeable bond.…’

  In so far as my husband could ever be said to babble, he was babbling.

  ‘So that’s what all this is about,’ I said acidly.

  ‘All this—? No, not at all. Not in the least. I wanted to see you, I always want to to see you, and it was high time we had a pleasant evening together.’

  ‘Ah, pleasant.’ I kept opening my mouth and hearing these sad, sarcastic little comments coming out. ‘That’s the thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, dropping his head.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve upset you.’

  ‘We’re separated, you can do what you like.’

  ‘Essentially that’s true, but—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But it still changes things, I realise that.’

  ‘You said it wouldn’t,’ I crowed, bitterly. ‘ That you hoped it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Not change our relationship, no. I meant that. But it is nonetheless a change, if only of perspective.’

  ‘Oh, please.’

  I was shocked at the nastiness of my reaction. Whatever he said was not going to be right. In fact the more careful his wording the angrier it made me.

  ‘Eve—’ The waiter advanced with the pudding menus, but Ian’s distracted, unseeing stare caused him to retreat almost at once. ‘Eve, what’s the matter?’

  It might have seemed a silly question, but in fact its simplicity was its strength. For what exactly was the matter? After all, I’d said it, we were separated so we could both do as we liked.

  I hid behind bluster. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious.’

  ‘It’s not actually.’ He sounded humble, and his bloody humility brought out the beast in me.

  ‘You’re patronising me, Ian! You invite me up to London, set up this dinner, make out it’s something we owe ourselves for being such wonderful people, and then hit me with this!’

  ‘That wasn’t how it was intended, I assure you.’

  ‘That’s how it feels.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he ventured, ‘it was going to feel like that anyway …?’

  I sensed he was approaching, all unawares, the truth of the matter, and rushed to head him off.

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m perfectly reasonable, I’m not a complete idiot!’

  ‘Very far from it.’

  ‘What did you think I would do, throw a vase at your head?’

  ‘No.’ He didn’t have to say more, because it was obvious to both of us that given the way I was behaving in a busy restaurant, vase-throwing in another context was entirely on the cards.

  ‘This,’ I went on, gesturing at our surroundings, ‘is obviously an announcement.’

  ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘I should think so, wouldn’t you.’

  ‘I’ll get the bill.’

  He gazed over his shoulder and lifted chin and eyebrow at our waiter. I thought: damn. Because I didn’t want to go. I was cutting off my nose to spite my face, and far too proud to acknowledge it. What I wanted – what I needed – was to sit here quietly until the urge to self-destruct had passed, and then to try and talk calmly and amicably for God’s sake about this latest development. As Ian had intended.

  But no, the bill was now approaching, and Ian was taking out his pen and his plastic, and all I could do was say ‘Excuse me’ and sweep off to the Ladies.

  When I got back he rose at my approach.

  ‘Right then,’ he said, his voice lighter as though he’d effected the necessary emotional gear change. ‘ Let’s go.’

  In the car, I asked: ‘So who is she?’ It was intended to be emollient, a friendly enquiry, but it sounded sullen and hostile.

  ‘Oh – I met her at a party.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  ‘
Her name’s Julia Kendal. She writes for the Nursing Times.’

  I thought I detected a note of pride, which I was quick to squash. ‘I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘Well no, you wouldn’t have.’

  It was obvious that as far as Ian was concerned, caution was now to be the keynote – any further information was going to have to be wrung out of him. I lasted for about another two minutes before muttering between gritted teeth:

  ‘What sort of age is she then?’

  ‘Um – fortyish, I believe.’

  Gimme a break. ‘Ish?’

  ‘Forty-one.’

  ‘Right. Thank you.’

  Another silence. At one point Ian took his left hand off the wheel and made a jerky little unfinished movement before replacing it. I think he wanted to put on some music, but thought better of it. Meanwhile I burned with wretched, malign curiosity. I wanted to know everything – to bath in the scalding water of my ridiculous, irrelevant jealousy.

  ‘I take it she’s single.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What, divorced?’

  ‘Never married.’ Ian paid careful attention to the oncoming traffic at a T-junction, and added: ‘ She was in a long-term relationship until about two years ago, but that ended, so.…’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know all the details. She didn’t want children and I understand that was something of an issue … but I don’t know.’

  He was talking about her, this other woman, as though she were a candidate for a job. Which I suppose in a sense she was.

  ‘And you bumped into each other at this party.’