The Man She Married (ARC) Page 6

  Eight

  Alice

  Then

  ‘I’m sorry; I’m just not in the mood.’

  There are few words more crushing, I think, as I lie on my back in the dark, hyper-aware of my husband’s hunched shape beside me. He’s curled up on his side as tightly as possible, as though trying to recreate a foetal shape. To return to the womb, perhaps. Fitting, since he claims this is all about his mother.

  I’ve just tried to initiate sex, running my fingers over his torso, then inching them down to his groin, but Dominic pushed my hand away. ‘Sorry, Al,’ he mumbles over his shoulder. ‘It’s, you know… Mum.’

  In the three months since Patricia’s death, we haven’t made love once. Not one single time. I understand that he’s grieving, and dealing with delayed shock. And it’s not as though I haven’t been under strain too: Comida has taken on a record amount of work in recent months and I’m opening a second office in Richmond. A lot of the time I haven’t actually minded all that much that we’re not having sex; happy just to flop into bed at the end of a demanding day. And yet, still, the rejection hurts.

  The next morning, as we’re standing in the kitchen drinking coffee before our respective commutes, I make a suggestion: something I was turning over in my head half the night. ‘We need to go away on holiday. Give ourselves a proper chance to relax.’

  ‘I don’t know, babe.’ Dominic looks sombre. ‘I’m not sure I’m in a holiday mood right now.’

  ‘Which is exactly why you need one,’ I say firmly, putting my empty mug in the dishwasher and scooping up my phone, keys and bag. ‘Anyway, we haven’t been away since our honeymoon. That was fourteen months ago.’

  ‘I guess you’re right.’ Dominic leans in to kiss me on the cheek as I pass him. ‘We should. Where d’you fancy?’

  ‘Let me think about it and see if I can come up with a last-minute deal somewhere really great.’

  In the end, I book a week in a luxury villa on the Smeralda coast in Sardinia. Availability is limited at such short notice, so the total package is eye-wateringly expensive, but I reason that we’ve earned it. We’ve both been far too busy to spend any of our earnings lately anyway, and I reassure myself that the odd splurge on a foreign trip is entirely justified. I cover the bills on the house, just because I always have done, so it seems easier. We take it in turns to pay when we eat out and shop for groceries, and I buy my own clothes. Most of Dominic’s salary goes unspent and is being transferred into an investment account which will eventually provide our pension. I’m taking care of the here and now, and my husband is investing in our future.

  * * *

  The villa I’ve selected is so gorgeous – with a vast terrace and an infinity pool that merges with the turquoise sea – that I’m expecting Dominic to be as excited as I am. Or at least to enthuse a little. But when I show him the online images, he only says: ‘Flying out on the twelfth of June? I can’t make that… I’ve got an important compliance meeting that day.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure we can work around that,’ I soothe. ‘I can head out there on the twelfth and get everything sorted in the villa, and we can book you a flight on the morning of the thirteenth.’

  Unbooking and rebooking flights becomes such a drawn-out and fraught process that my own preparations are ignored and I’m left with less than an hour to pack. It’s only when I’m in the taxi on the way to Heathrow that I realise I’ve forgotten to put any swimwear into my case, and that the villa is several miles from basic provisions and twenty miles from the nearest town. I’m already cutting it fine to make it through security before the gate closes, so there’ll be no opportunity to comb the airport shops.

  ‘Hold on…’ I tell the cab driver as we are heading for the Hammersmith flyover, ‘we just need to take a small diversion. To Notting Hill.’

  As the taxi swoops off the A4 and heads south through Kensington, I’m texting JoJo frantically.

  Are you at home? Please say you are! Xx

  We pull up outside JoJo’s flat, and with the meter running, I run inside and am relieved to find her in. I emerge triumphantly with two bikinis: one leopard print and one cobalt blue. The two of us are not quite the same size – I’m taller, and more flat-chested – but they will suffice until I can find something else.

  The cab driver heads west to Shepherd’s Bush, cutting along Goldhawk Road to pick up the A4 in Chiswick. As we idle at a traffic light in Stamford Brook, I crane my neck to glance anxiously at the traffic ahead, trying to calculate whether I still have a chance of making the flight. Sensing my anxiety, the cabbie says, ‘Don’t worry, love, we’ll speed up once we’re past the Chiswick roundabout. We’re only five minutes from there now. Fifteen to Heathrow, tops.’

  Mollified, I go back to looking out of the window.

  And then I see him.

  The cab is trundling past a café on King Street. As with many similar establishments, there are a couple of small metal tables and a handful of chairs on the patch of pavement outside, for customers to take advantage of the fine summer weather. And there, sitting at one of the tables is Dominic. With a woman.

  We rattle to a stop at one of an interminable series of traffic lights, and we’re stationary long enough for me to be quite sure that it’s my husband. The woman sitting opposite him is petite, with long auburn hair worn in elaborate teased waves. High-maintenance hair. She’s leaning forward over the table as though trying to close the space between herself and Dominic, and as she lifts her coffee cup to drink, she turns up the corners of her mouth as though he’s just said something amusing. I notice her lips, which are a gash of scarlet.

  Then the light turns green and the taxi pulls away, with me craning my head over my right shoulder, looking back. Still trying to take in what I’ve seen.

  The cabbie slides the dividing partition open. ‘Something wrong, love?’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘No. Everything’s fine.’

  * * *

  The villa is every bit as lovely as in the online brochure. Better, in fact. No photo could capture the luminous blue of the sky, the mesmerising hum of the cicadas or the sweet, sharp fragrance of the lemons growing in the garden.

  The villa company have arranged for the fridge to be stocked with the makings of a cold supper – bread, salad, cheese and antipasti – but when I arrive, I have no appetite. I unpack my case in the elegant but sparsely furnished master bedroom, then take a bottle of white wine onto the terrace and watch the sunset, brooding.

  By the time Dominic’s plane has landed at Olbia the next morning, I’ve reached the conclusion that I must confront him straight away. After spending one tense, miserable, sleepless night, I have no option. I can’t contemplate feeling like this for the rest of the holiday; it will make me ill.

  ‘This place is great!’ Dominic says, taking in the view as soon as he has climbed out of the taxi. ‘Amazing! Well done for finding it, babe!’

  I turn on my heel and walk back towards the villa.

  He strides after me. ‘Ally? What’s with the cranky attitude?’

  I whirl round and face him. ‘I saw you, Dom.’

  ‘Saw me? What are you on about?’

  ‘When I was on my way to Heathrow. I saw you sitting in a café, with a woman.’

  Dominic stares back at me blankly for a few seconds. I’m half expecting him to deny that it was him. After all, I only glimpsed him for a few seconds; it’s just possible I was mistaken. It could have been someone who looked a lot like him.

  But then he slaps his forehead. ‘Ah… that. Yes, I was there. I was taking a meeting.’

  ‘A meeting?’ I spit. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ He seems neither embarrassed nor defensive.

  ‘But you work all the way over on the other side of town.’

  ‘I know. It wasn’t that kind of meeting.’

  I stomp into the open-plan kitchen area, my leather sandals slapping loudly on the marble tiles. Wrenching open the fridge door, I pull out a jug
of icy-cold lemonade and fill a large tumbler, playing for time. ‘So…’ I say coldly over the rim of the glass, ‘Mind telling me what kind of a meeting it was?’

  He shrugs. ‘If you really want to know.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Her name’s Nicola Mayhew, and she’s a party planner.’

  That’s one word for it, I think. The kind who plans private parties for two.

  ‘I didn’t want you to find out about this, but obviously I’m going to have to tell you… I’m throwing a party for your birthday. Nicola didn’t have time to get over to Silvertown, not before I flew out here. So I volunteered to meet her near her work.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘She’s very pretty.’

  He shrugs. ‘Yes, quite pretty I suppose, but why would I be interested in her, when I’m madly in love with you?’

  I think about this, but can find no answer that would satisfy either of us. ‘And you’re really throwing me a party?’

  ‘Yes. A surprise party. Although it’s not going to be a surprise now, is it?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Has this ruined it for you?’ He looks truly crestfallen.

  ‘No,’ I say, although the answer is obviously yes. But for now, at least, I am reassured.

  * * *

  After Dominic has unpacked, we swim, sunbathe and eat lunch under the shaded pergola. The air is hot and heavy with the scent of rosemary and wild thyme. I suggest a siesta. Maybe, now that our skin is glowing from the sun and our heads are muzzy with Vermentino, we can end the sexual drought.

  ‘One minute, babe, I’ve got something for you.’

  He reaches into his laptop bag and retrieves a small package: a white drawstring bag with a distinctive turquoise logo. I pull out a Melissa Odabash bikini in a bright acid yellow. The lines are clean, the fabric soft as silk, the cut impeccable.

  I look up in wonder. ‘How did you know? Did JoJo tell you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘You left all your swimwear on the bed, you silly galah! So I knew you were going to need something.’

  ‘Thanks, Dom, this is fab.’ I throw my arms round his neck. ‘And so are you. I’m so sorry about being arsy before.’

  He envelops me in a long hug, which feels so good, so comforting. I relax into his embrace, instinctively pressing the length of my body against his. We’re both still warm, and slightly sweaty from our morning in the sun. Then Dominic cups my face with one hand and kisses me on the lips, first in an affectionate, gentle way, then with more urgency.

  He’s still the best kisser in the world. I feel my insides melt, then give way to rising heat. He pushes me backwards, a little roughly, against the wrought-iron patio chair. Continuing to kiss me, he pulls up my T-shirt and pinches my nipples hard, sending a little jolt of pain to join my desire.

  ‘Dom!’ I gasp. ‘Hold on…’

  But he acts as though he hasn’t heard me, turning me round roughly and flipping me over until I’m bent over the metal chair back. Without a word, he yanks down my bikini bottoms and thrusts himself into me. Hard. My chin bangs against the chair and my teeth split the inside of my lower lip, drawing blood. One of Dom’s hands is pressing against the back of my neck as he heaves against me until finishing with a groan and a shudder. Then he releases me and steps back. I can hear him zipping his shorts.

  He’s always been keen on varying our sex life, but it’s never been like this before. Not rough. Not painful. I straighten up, pressing the edge of my hand against my bleeding lip.

  ‘You okay, babe?’ Dom calls. He has already turned away and is heading towards the bedroom.

  Am I? They say it’s good to spice things up from time to time. To surprise your spouse. Surprise party, surprise fucking. And at least the drought is now over. And yet…

  He turns and walks back a few steps towards me. ‘We’re good?’

  The upward inflection invites me to contradict him. Instead I agree.

  ‘Yes,’ I say to him as I dab my lip with the corner of one of the pool towels. ‘We’re good.’

  Nine

  Alice

  Then

  My ‘surprise’ birthday party is held at Atwell’s, a smart restaurant off Fenchurch Street. They have an orangery with a small outside courtyard for private hire, and the conventional table settings have been cleared to make way for a cocktail bar and various food stations. Thirty or forty of my friends circulate with their drinks and plates of mini burgers, fish tacos and lobster rolls, and a playlist downloaded from my iTunes provides the background music. It’s nice, I think, but, then again, as someone who runs a catering business, I know this didn’t exactly require a lot of planning.

  Still, Dominic was no doubt too busy to take care of the details himself. He’s been crazily busy lately. He’s back so late from work that I hardly see him during the week, and at the weekend he is often tired or distracted. Even David and Melanie’s wedding fails to generate much enthusiasm, although I’m happily carried away with the romance of it all and in love with my beautiful Temperley London bridesmaid dress.

  The end of that summer and most of the autumn are taken up with establishing Comida’s second office in South West London. I’ve taken on a young Slovak called Milan to handle client liaison, while his boyfriend Matthew will be in charge of recruiting and managing chefs and waitstaff. They’re the archetypal odd couple – Milan a flamboyant drama queen, and Matthew older, quieter and more steady – but I’m developing a great bond with them both. They’re quite capable of running the second office without my input, but I schedule frequent updates and planning meetings because I enjoy them so much.

  ‘Sweetheart…’ I say to Dominic when we’re curled up in front of the fire with a bottle of Zinfandel and the Sunday supplements one weekend in early December. Dominic has just set down his iPad and picked up the Travel section. ‘Matt and Milan are going skiing in Austria over the Christmas break, and they wondered if we’d like to join them.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he says. Then he catches sight of my expression. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. Something that’s just come up. It’s quite…’ He looks down at the page he was reading again, as though searching for the appropriate word. ‘Quite serious.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ I set down my wine glass on the coffee table, looking at him intently, trying but failing to decipher his facial expression.

  ‘My brother Simon… he’s been working abroad and he’s had a stroke.’

  My eyes grow wide with disbelief. ‘What? He’s had a stroke! Why on earth didn’t you say before now?’

  ‘I was waiting to see what happened… you know how these things are.’

  I shake my head firmly. ‘No, actually I don’t. If David had had a stroke, I’d have mentioned it the minute it happened. Phoning you would be the first thing I’d do.’

  Dom glances up at me. ‘But you and David are close, and Simon and I have barely spoken in years… It’s like comparing apples and oranges.’

  I give a little shrug. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘The prognosis was unclear to start with, and he’s not exactly communicative at the best of times. But the hospital treating him got in touch just now,’ he holds up his iPad, the email app still open, ‘and apparently he’s taken a turn for the worse.’

  My hand reaches for him instinctively. ‘Poor you. But I still wish you’d told me when you first found out.’

  ‘I think I was in shock, to be honest. But now I’ve read this latest update, I think I’m going to have to go out there.’

  ‘Out where? Where is he, for God’s sake?’ I frown at Dom, taking my hand off his forearm and reaching for my glass of wine.

  ‘South Africa. Johannesburg.’

  ‘Really?’ My eyes widen. ‘You’re going to fly all the way out to South Africa, even though he couldn’t make it down from Newcastle to attend our wedding?’

  Dominic sighs heavily. ‘Exactly. You know we’re hardly best buddies, but if things go… you know, badly, it could be my last time eve
r to see my brother. And he’s the only family I have left.’

  I nod. ‘If the worst happens, which it probably won’t. It’s not like he’s that old.’ I do the mental arithmetic and try to work out how old Simon Gill actually is. Early forties?

  ‘You’re probably right, but with Mum gone, I’m all he has. Look, this is what I’ll do, okay? I’ll book a flight as soon as I can, but I’ll leave the return date open. And if I happen to be back by Christmas… well, yes, why the hell not? We can go skiing with your gay best friends.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Tell you what, babe, why don’t you book two flights to Austria anyway, and if I can’t make it back in time, then take a girlfriend. JoJo or someone.’

  I give in. Family is family after all, I tell myself, and if it was my brother who was stranded in a hospital seven thousand miles away, I would want to go to him. Christmas or no Christmas.

  While Dominic is showering, I tidy the sitting room, wiping rings of red wine from the coffee table and stacking up all the newspapers to go in the recycling box. The Sunday Times Travel supplement falls open at the page Dominic was reading.

  World Wide Flight Sale: Special Christmas Offers on Flights to South Africa. Johannesburg £760 return, Cape Town £820.

  * * *

  ‘I tell you what, Dom: I could always ditch the ski trip and come out there too. Christmas in hot sunshine; that would be kind of nice.’

  A few days later, I’m watching Dominic pack. His boarding pass, displaying LHR-JHB in large letters, lies on the bed next to the case.

  He reaches over the case and plants a playful kiss on my lips. ‘That’s sweet of you, but I don’t think so, babe. I’m going to be at the hospital most of the time, and Joburg’s not a great city for a woman to be wandering around on her own. Not safe.’