CHAPTER FOUR HARRIET STRATTON

CHAPTER FOUR

H ARRIET S TRATTON

J ULY 2002

Harriet paused from folding the clean laundry into a pile and stared at Hugo. It was a hot, sticky, airless day and her energy levels were low, her actions a little sluggish. It happened like this sometimes, when one other factor, in this case heat, conspired to jump on her sadness and pull at her bones, filling her with a need to lie down somewhere cool and nap, just for a while.

‘So what do we need, apart from a decent bottle of red and toothpaste?' Her husband stood with her shopping basket perched comically on his arm.

‘Milk, olives and anchovies, please. I've got everything else. Thought I'd make spaghetti puttanesca tonight?'

‘Smashing, I'll make it two bottles.'

‘Fab.'

‘And shall I get garlic bread?'

‘Sure.' She smiled at the handsome man whose slight paunch sat over the waistband of his cargo shorts. He never missed an opportunity to go extra where carbs were concerned.

‘I could make tiramisu?' he offered casually.

‘Hugo, we'd never get off the sofa! Pasta, bread, pudding ... why don't we go the whole hog and grab cheese as well?'

‘Really?' She noted the excited glint in his gluttonous eye, and was quite taken with this moment of refreshing normality.

‘No! Not really, I'm joking!'

Grappling with the basket so he could get close to her, he leaned in and kissed her cheek, then stayed still, his face close to hers, both inviting and expecting more. This was how he usually initiated sex. A kiss, a hug and then this anticipatory hovering, waiting to see what her hands did next, where her mouth landed, what words leapt from her tongue. It was an established ritual.

They had, over the years, become adept at grabbing opportunities for intimacy when they arose. When both kids were at a sports match, when Hugo's mother took them for a movie and pizza on the odd Saturday night, if ever their schedules coincided and they found themselves both at home during a school day, if the kids were engrossed in an activity, or even if they simply found themselves in the bathroom with its functioning lock. In truth, the snatched liaisons were made more fun by their unpredictability. Sex had never been an issue for them.

Until now. Moving her head away from his, alarmed at how quickly the joviality had stalled, she twisted her body and grabbed the pillowslip, which was still warm from drying in the sun, folding it in half and half again, the edge tucked under her chin as she concentrated on anything other than the fact that he was still standing uncomfortably close to her.

His proximity, his expression, his almost imperceptible wrinkle of the nose ...

She felt they were sliding towards if not a row, then certainly a frank discussion about what happened next. The truth was she didn't know the answer, didn't know how to rewind to that time when she wanted his skin next to hers, loved him to kiss her neck, tell her she was beautiful, their breathing in unison as a delightful crescendo built beneath the Egyptian cotton sheets which had been a wedding present. It was as heart-rending as it was uncomfortable that at the merest suggestion of intimacy, she wondered what rituals he and his lover had established. A wink, a nod, a text, a gesture? What were the stepping stones they trod before engaging in sex? The path they walked that led to the most intimate of connections? The fact that they would have danced towards the point of contact in this way was just as galling, if not more, than the act of sex itself. There was a particular closeness in the build-up, the anticipation, the planning, that was, for Harriet at least, harder to see past, to forgive. The physical act was one thing, but the thought of those snatched moments tortured her sleep and were far more damaging to her marriage. Far harder to ignore.

‘I'd better get this put away!' She spoke with more enthusiasm than was necessary for the mundane task.

Pretending . . .

Harriet had just placed the linen in the old housekeeper's cupboard on the landing when she heard the front door close. With a need that she knew would have impressed her sister, she made her way down the stairs and pulled her diary from the shelf on the dresser, before settling into the old leather chair where she liked to write.

Hello – never know how to start writing or what to say or whether I need to have a particular format, still feels a bit, awkward ... but what I do know is that Hugo has gone to pick up a few bits and pieces from town and I'm taking the chance to put pen to paper. Ellis was right, this is cathartic, helps me order my thoughts, work things through and, ye gods, is there a lot to work through ...

It still feels like we are both tiptoeing around all that needs to be said. I have so many questions! Truth is, most of them I'm afraid to ask. I don't want the detail and yet I do. Am I nuts?

I want to know what he's thinking. I want to know if he's happy now, or does he miss her?

She paused from writing; did he miss her? The thought alone enough to make her body shudder involuntarily. A memory came to her now: Wendy at their Christmas party. Her long, dark hair was bouncy, shiny and it made Harriet think she should probably get her own ratty tails trimmed.

‘You look absolutely gorgeous!'

That's what she'd said to the woman who stood in her kitchen, leaning on the island she and Hugo had chosen together, the place where Harriet had cooked a thousand suppers for her family. The woman had a glass of champagne in her hand, absolutely gorgeous ... Harriet had meant it, noting the sparkle in her eye, the weight she'd lost, her neutral manicure, nice make-up; the kind of look that was expensive and well applied, fancy autumnal shades daubed to highlight her eyes, her cheekbones and accentuate her mouth. And all the while, there was an undercurrent to her behaviour that was almost impossible to identify. She carried the magical glittery aura of someone high on life, someone who had a secret.

The secret was that when Harriet was away from home, Hugo took her to their bed. The secret was that Hugo met her in country hotels when he was supposed to be at a conference. The secret was that Wendy Peterson held scissors in her manicured hands and she used them to cut up the life Harriet knew. The life her kids knew. The life they, as a family, had built.

‘You look gorgeous!'

That's what she'd said and Wendy's reply?

‘Thank you, doll, I feel gorgeous!'

There were two things about the exchange that replayed in Harriet's head and bothered her still. One: how Harriet had complimented her husband's mistress, was outdone by her, as she shone brighter than his dull, exhausted wife who hadn't had time to change her blouse or shower and had settled for a quick spritz under the arm with deodorant and a liberal squirt of perfume. And the second, that Wendy called her ‘doll'. Doll! Something to be played with. Not for the first time she felt the punch of deceit in her gut and it lit the flame of fury. She was hurt by Hugo, of course, but also found the actions of Wendy Peterson unfathomable, knowing that no matter how strong the temptation, she could never do similar to another woman. She gripped her pen.

I want to ask him if he misses her and yet am fearful of his reply. He can't win, really. If he says he doesn't miss her then I will doubt his answer, and this will stab at my heart and I'll stew over it that's for sure. But if he tells me he does miss her, then what do I do with that information? That'd be it, wouldn't it? I mean how would we recover from an admission like that? I'd forever feel like his jailer, keeping him here away from Miss Luscious Locks against his will.

I'm thoughtful for much of the day, quiet even. I'm ashamed to say I feel joy when Hugo is distressed. It feels like penance and in that moment when he is crying and I'm not, it gives me the strongest hope that we might come out the other side, because that's what we both want. That is, after all, the sole purpose of uprooting our lives and coming here. Ordinarily it's at the end of the day when red wine seeps in his veins and his guard is down that his smile slips, and with his hair mussed, shirt open, his tears flow freely and he begs for forgiveness ... Yes, that's when I feel the prickle of happiness on my skin. His remorse is raw and so simply expressed it reminds me that we have something worth fighting for and that I have something worth staying for. It's a power shift. In that moment I don't feel like the wronged wife, I feel like the one who holds the sceptre while he sobs and asks me to let him stay.

There are also these minutes in the cold light of day when I get to reflect on how I've moved away from the house and village I loved. Given up the job I liked very much, the job where I was held in high regard, hopeful of advancing my career, said goodbye to those neighbours who had smudged the line and become friends – and all through no fault of my own I find myself here. It feels a bit like punishment.

She drew lines through her words with vigour .

No, that's not fair. It's a beautiful place and I wasn't frogmarched here. How to phrase it? It feels like hiding. Yes, that's it, and it doesn't feel good. As if I am tarnished with the guilt that covers him. And her. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve any of it!

I think about her, of course, and I wonder if she feels relief at my leaving, no longer worried about bumping into me in the post office or standing next to me in the pub. And I don't like the idea of having given her such a gift. Or maybe she feels only sadness at the loss of him. I wonder if she is sitting somewhere right now, thinking about what she's done, the part she played in creating the tornado in which we now spin. Her actions that have left the thick rind of scar across what I thought was a happy marriage. At least it was for me.

For my husband, I'm guessing not so much, otherwise he wouldn't have reached out to her, taken her hand, and embarked on an affair that has cost me so much.

My insides feel hollow, scooped out. I'm in freefall. I'm trembling head to toe, inside and out. I want it to stop. I want to rewind the clock. It's my dream to recapture the solidity of that old life. To know beyond a doubt that I can trust him. Is it even possible?

This is a new beginning in this new place.

The house is solid, a three-storey, higgledy-piggledy cottage, with an open-plan sitting/dining room, square kitchen, sash windows, pretty carved portico above the front door and all the window frames painted white, making them stand out against the pale external walls. A solid house ... and yet I feel that as a person, and we as a family, are on very shaky ground.

She hadn't heard the front door and was a little startled to look up and see Hugo standing in the doorway.

‘That was quick!' There it was again, that sing-song voice of pretence.

‘I only got halfway.' His expression was pensive as he walked forward and took a seat on the wide William Morris covered footstool that had lived at the foot of their bed in their former home.

‘What's the matter?' She folded the book down into the seat cushion and sat forward.

‘I just wanted to say ...' He paused.

‘What, Hugo?' Her heart fluttered at the thought that he had read her mind, or worse, her diary.

‘You can ask me anything, you know. The idea makes me uncomfortable but I'm aware I have created this God-awful mess and I will do whatever I can to help put it right.' He spoke softly, earnestly, as he put the empty shopping basket on the floor. ‘That was it, just wanted to say that you can ask me anything and I will answer truthfully. Do you think that might help?'

‘It ... it might,' she whispered.

Since the day he had confirmed her suspicions, breaking down in tears, curling into a ball on the floor and begging her to forgive him, her whole existence could be likened to feeling her way in the dark. It was, in her view, a miracle she had not plummeted off the edge of a ravine. She had told him sternly to get up off the floor; she didn't have the time or patience for his self-indulgence, as if it were he who had been so wronged. And he'd stood, dusted off his trousers and sat quietly on the sofa, like a child awaiting instruction. It had nearly killed her, the terrible conflict of missing and loving the man she had thought Hugo was, her forever ... The pain raw and all-consuming, seeing him in this new light, unmasked, revealed, while trying so hard to reconcile with him, to plot a future, and all the while pretending everything was going to be okay for her little family.

‘We won't tell the kids, no point.' She'd spoken while looking out over the garden.

‘I agree.' There was no mistaking the relief in his words. She decided against pressing the point that this was a decision made to shield them, not protect him.

‘And our decision to move is the right one, isn't it?' She'd turned to face him then. ‘To go somewhere I'm not going to be sitting next to her in a traffic queue or bumping into her at the school gates. The thought of seeing her ...' She shook her head, knowing it required no further explanation. ‘That's the plan, isn't it, Hugo? It'll make things easier, won't it? If we go somewhere I'm not going to have to smile and make small talk with the woman you have been shagging?'

As if on cue, he'd cried again.

And now he was offering her the chance to ask more questions. It was a prospect as exciting as it was terrifying, but an opportunity nonetheless and one she would not let slip through her fingers.