CHAPTER SIX HARRIET STRATTON

CHAPTER SIX

H ARRIET S TRATTON

J ULY 2002

Harriet did her best to control her anxiety as she made a pot of tea, letting the bags steep in the hot water, stirring gently and slowly inside her dotty Emma Bridgewater teapot until she was satisfied by the colour. Her pace was deliberate, not only putting off the conversation that awaited, but also a task she took pleasure in, a ritual that she hoped might abate the flurry of nerves in her gut. Next, she poured the tea into two generous mugs and handed one to Hugo, who had taken a seat at the scrubbed farmhouse kitchen table.

‘Thanks. I feel' – he drew breath – ‘a bit nervous.' His tone confirming this feeling was as alien to him as it was for her.

‘Me too.'

They both gave an awkward laugh as she sat opposite. The tea was too hot but she sipped anyway, grateful for the prop.

‘It's not often I wish the kids would run in and disturb our peace, but I do right now.'

She liked his honesty. Liked, too, the reminder of their normal lives and their two beautiful kids. He tapped his fingers on the wood and she felt his knee jumping under the table as his foot danced.

‘I don't really know where to start.' She took the lead. ‘But I do have questions that are whizzing around my head, things I've avoided asking, partly, I think, because I don't want to hear the answers, yet I know I won't settle until I do, if that makes any sense. And partly because I figured that the less I knew, the vaguer things were, the less I'd have to visualise the reality, and it might help us move forward.'

‘Trouble is we're not really moving forward, are we?'

Harriet shook her head. Equally fearful and excited at the prospect of their discussion.

‘And I want us to move forward, H, more than I can say.'

‘Me too.' She coughed to clear her throat. ‘I guess one thing that bothers me, that I'm curious about is ...' It felt weird asking this of the man she loved, her husband. ‘... do you ... do you love her or did ... did you love her?' And just like that they were off. She only realised she was shaking when she raised the mug to her mouth and saw the tremor on the meniscus of her tea.

Hugo shook his head, his tone definitive. ‘No. I don't and I never did. Not that.'

Her relief was a physical thing as her back muscles softened.

‘Did she love you?' This she wanted to know as it would help shape the way she looked at her husband. Was their affair on an equal footing? Did he string her along?

‘We didn't have that exact conversation, but I think she was certainly heading that way, but I made it clear that it wasn't a road, erm ...' He swallowed. ‘I made it clear I was fond of her but nothing more and so I think she held back in being open about it.'

Fond ... such a shitty word. Inadequate at best and in this context quite condescending.

‘I love you, Harriet. I love you, always you. Only you. I love you so much this is killing me!'

She chose to ignore the words, which in the face of his actions felt a little thin.

‘Did you have sex in our bed?'

Hugo nodded. ‘Yes.'

His response a needle of distress that lanced all progress.

‘How many times?' She pushed her teeth together, tensing her jaw, liking the distraction of the discomfort.

‘Three times.' His reply sticky from a dry mouth.

‘Shit!' She closed her eyes and pictured the nights she must have climbed between the sheets when only hours before ... her whole body shuddered. She controlled her desire to pull a face, to exclaim her revulsion. She was happy they'd left the bed in the old house, but not happy that there must have been at least one hundred nights she'd slept in it unaware of what that creaky old walnut base had withstood. The false promises and whispers that had floated into the headboard, padded and covered in her beloved, carefully chosen Osborne and Little fabric. The bed where she had given birth to both of their children, in which she would never spend another night.

‘Did you ...' He took his time. ‘Did you never have an inkling, nothing?'

‘Nope.' She stared at him. ‘Not really. I mean not until the day I found out. Does that make me stupid?'

‘No, no. It makes you trusting. It makes you, you.' His eyes were wide in the way they were when he complimented her or told her he loved her. She looked away. The news that he had slept with his mistress in their marital bed still hadn't fully landed.

‘I guess that's the thing when you believe what someone is telling you; you believe what someone is telling you! And that's that. For me there's no degrees of trust, there's only trust or no trust. I've never questioned it. Never. It was you, Hugo, my husband , and so I never knew I had to question anything. That level of mistrust, marriages with a shaky foundation, that was for other people. That's what I thought.' She felt her throat tighten at this truth; the facts still carried the power to shock her even though she knew them to be true. And even after all these weeks, it didn't hurt any less. ‘Do we have enough cereal? Yes. Shall we go visit your mother on Sunday? No. Does this dress make my bum look big? No . Do you promise to love, honour and cherish this woman for the rest of her life? I do. That kind of thing.'

Hugo sipped his tea. She noted the beads of sweat peppering his top lip and understood that he now used the mug as a prop too. His silence another opportunity for her to expel all that rattled in her brain.

‘When we first met, Hugo, you told me that nothing less than forever would do for you. You said that you hated the fact that we'd met when we were in our twenties and that there had been two whole decades with us both on the planet, unaware of the other. You said it was a waste. And I believed you. I thought nothing less than forever would do, too. I never doubted it. Never looked at another man. I was always off the market. Yours.' It was painful to recall and yet necessary; she wanted him to acknowledge the phrases that raced around her head in the early hours.

‘I love you. I do, I love you. I love you so much!' He kept his voice low as if still wary of this phrase, once a cure-all for each minor upset, but understanding the inadequacy of it now.

‘And I love you.' Her sigh was almost involuntary. ‘I guess that's the problem. If I didn't care it'd be easier ...'

‘Not for me.' He spoke firmly.

There was a beat of silence as her mind played tricks on her, allowing her to feel joy at his lamentation of love so sincerely spoken, before she mentally pulled up; it wasn't enough to restore harmony, not any more.

‘I've loved you from that first date.' She still pictured the night fondly, one of the best of her life, as if she knew that it was important, more than just a fling, a snog. He'd made her feel special, and she had wanted more and more of that feeling, more and more of him. ‘That night at uni when you turned up with a bottle of rum and you'd put eyeliner on.'

‘Guyliner.' He corrected and smiled, but not even his quip could cut the tension.

‘And it was like every milestone we reached – sleeping together, meeting parents, our first holiday, getting engaged, marrying, buying the house, the kids – every single thing felt like a tightening of our commitment, stronger glue, locking us in. I had no doubt. Have never had any doubt, didn't question whether we were right for each other or whether there might be someone more suitable. It was a fait accompli. I fell for you. I committed to you and that was that. And crazy as it sounds, I'm still in shock. I don't think I'll ever be able to fully accept the choices you made.' Or how you hoodwinked me. This she kept to herself.

‘It's not crazy,' he whispered, shaking his head. ‘I'd feel the same. I can't imagine it. I don't know how I'd survive if it was you who'd strayed.'

She supposed there was a compliment buried in his trite phrasing.

‘I'm glad you can't, Hugo, because it's utter shit. The worst.' Her hands flew to her throat and she rubbed where the hurt gathered in lieu of tears. She swallowed. ‘I still wake each morning and there is this split second where I don't remember what's happened and I feel how I used to feel: excited to face the day, happy. Then I open my eyes, look up at the strange ceiling in the room that's now ours and I feel—'

He cut her short. ‘I'm sorry, H. I'm so, so sorry. And if I could turn back time ...'

‘Oh yes, the old time-travelling wish. Wouldn't that be something?' Her sarcastic tone leaked from her. ‘I used to wish we could go back too, but then sometimes I wonder if it's maybe better that I know the real you. Good that I've had the scales removed from my eyes.' She wanted to wound him a little, wanted him to feel how she felt every waking second, stumbling in disbelief and distress, doing her best to get through the day.

‘You do know the real me! You do! We've been together since we were twenty!' he pressed.

‘You're right, Hugo, I do know the real you – now .' She couldn't help it, knowing these verbal daggers came from a place of hurt. He sat back and let them pierce his skin. ‘I don't see how we stop the kids finding out.' This was one of her fears: how to manage the fallout and protect their children. Their son and younger daughter, just the thought of their distress, brought to their door by the very people who were supposed to make things better, the people they trusted to keep the ship afloat caused her stomach to roll with nerves. She would do all she could to keep it from them, but she hoped that if they did ever find out, enough time would have passed so she and Hugo would be in a better position, unified, stable, and able to keep them all steady.

Hugo buried his face in his hands.

‘I can't stand the thought of it.' He rubbed his face and shifted in his seat. ‘I worry about the rumour mill, you know how people love to talk, and so I guess that if there came a time when we couldn't keep the information from them, we'd need to concentrate on keeping the worry from them; show a united front. And no matter what they hear or when they hear it, we answer their questions fully and we don't give them any reason to fret, because all they would worry about is that we are okay as a couple, that we are solid, as a family. Right?'

It was Harriet's turn to nod and sip her tea. She prayed silently that it wouldn't come to that.

‘Can I ask you something now?' He spoke slowly, sitting up straight in the spindle-backed chair.

‘Sure.' She put down her mug.

‘Are you ever going to be able to get over this enough so it doesn't sit between us like a spikey thing that we have to navigate? And I don't mean to sound flippant, I genuinely want to know.' He licked his lower lip. ‘I wonder if you are ever going to get over it enough so that we can have sex again?'

The wry laugh that escaped her mouth was born of nerves. ‘Is that your biggest concern? When you can get your leg over again?' It was coarse and she knew it but couldn't care less. A low blow.

‘No!' His whole demeanour slumped as he pushed his fingers into his hair, looking close to tears. ‘No, it's not that. I ask because physical intimacy for us was always a marker. If we were having a great time, when we were laughing, the kids were happy, sex was a priority, just another lovely aspect to our lives. But when we've been stressed or tired, whatever, there's been a bit of a drought and so I guess what I'm asking is, will you ever forgive me, Harriet? Do you think we will ever get back to a point close to where we were before?'

She took her time in forming a response, his words a reminder of how their marriage lay in fragments all around them, shattered. It filled her with a sadness tinged with anger. Why had he done this to them, to her? What an idiot! Maisie's words of support came to her now. Her niece was right, he was a bloody idiot.

‘I-I know I miss you. I know I miss us.' This was her truth.

In that moment she could only hope it was enough.

‘I miss us too, but that's why we're here, right?' He sounded desperate as his eyes misted. ‘Starting over, a fresh beginning, new place, new house, new everything!'

Hugo's phone rang. Its ring was invasive. Her jaw tensed as he reached for it with a certain reluctance.

‘Hey, buddy!' His face broke into a smile and he pinched the bridge of his nose. The sound of their son's voice floated from the mouthpiece. She could pick up the odd word, something about a bike chain and a can of oil on Aunty Ellis's garage floor.

Leaving them to their conversation, and with hurt and pain swirling inside her, she took the remainder of her tea and sought refuge in the warm embrace of the leather library chair.

Dear Diary . . .

Still don't know how I'm supposed to start?

Dear Me . . .

How about ‘Dear Future Me' – as I hope to impart wisdom that might someday be good to read. Who am I kidding? Writing this is for me an exercise in mental water-treading, which I need right now, a moment of escape. Conversations with Hugo can feel like a weight that pushes me down, crushing me, and sometimes I need to wriggle free and write alone, quietly.

It's quite nice, retiring to the chair, flipping open this book with so many blank pages and filling them gradually with whatever is in my head. I doubt anyone will ever read this. And would I really want them to? Probably not. I shall decide what to do with it when it's full or finished or I get lazy or bored with the exercise, or maybe when I'm fixed, when we're fixed – how about that?

The idea that I won't want to write it any more because Hugo and I will be back to living in clover, holding hands over the duvet cover at night, eating bowls of garlicky pasta at the countertop and laughing at everything from the antics of the neighbours, something funny we've read, or something stupid his colleagues have done ... waking each day with a smile at the thought that he's sleeping next to me ... and just like that, the word ‘neighbour' is enough to conjure a picture of her – the woman who had sex in the bed where I gave birth.

Three times.

I still think of her as Mrs Peterson, crazy, isn't it? I used to shout out, ‘Morning, Mrs Peterson!' ‘Happy Christmas, Mrs Peterson!' We were never friends. And all the while she slept with my husband. A fact that still feels like a lie no matter how often I think, say, or write it. I can't bring myself to call her Wendy in my mind. Wendy ... I don't hate her. I hate what she did but I don't hate her. She's not married to me, he is.

Wendy and Hugo . . .

Hugo and Wendy . . .

Nope that is not a rabbit hole down which I am going to dive. It can only lead to no place good.

Urgh, not writing any more today, might even rip this page out.

It's horrible.

It's exhausting.

This was supposed to be my moment of peace. Ha! Fat chance. I'm now more tightly wound than I was before I started ...

‘Hey?' Hugo came towards her with the phone outstretched. Hurriedly she closed the book and reached out. ‘It's Dilly.'

‘Dilly Dally Donks!' She held the phone close, feeling her spirit soar knowing she was connected to her little girl.

Her daughter launched into a fast-paced diatribe. ‘Mummy, Aunty Ellis bought us popcorn and Bear said we'd have it when we watched a movie tonight and I just found the packet in the sink, he ate it all!' she wailed.

‘Okay, well, that was naughty, I'm sure Aunty Ellis will—'

‘And I couldn't find Paw-Paw.' Dilly rarely went anywhere without her teddy bear. ‘And Bear said I was a baby because I cried and then Aunty Ellis said he was a baby because he didn't know how to share popcorn and then he took my bike and—'

‘Dilly.' Harriet cut her short. ‘You're supposed to be having an adventure and you guys promised me that you'd try and get on while you're at Aunty Ellis's house.'

‘I'm getting on with Bear, it's him that's not getting on with me!' she protested.

Harriet closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘You're coming home soon. Only another week and you'll be home and I can't wait to see you, pumpkin. I've missed you both so much.' She cursed the crack to her voice. Hugo dropped down on to the footstool and rubbed her leg as she spoke. ‘We both have,' she added. This was how it had to be, a united front for the kids.

‘Home to Ledwick Green?'

To hear the excitement in her daughter's voice at the mention of their old house, which would never again be home, was jarring. Almost instinctively she brushed Hugo's hand from her leg.

‘No, darling. To our new house. It's lovely. You have a beautiful bedroom waiting for you with all your toys and bits and pieces' – well, she would when she finally located them among the stacked boxes in the hallway – ‘and you will be right across the hall from Bear and there's so much to do here!'

‘Where is it again?'

It tore at Harriet's heart that her little girl couldn't remember the name of the place they were now going to call home.

‘It's Ilfracombe. And there's a beach and a harbour and places to swim, and ice cream!'

‘I miss you, Mummy.' Dilly's voice was small and Harriet's throat narrowed with distress for all the changes they were going through and with the desire to hold her baby girl.

‘I miss you too.'

‘Just one more week.' Her daughter, she could tell, was trying to sound brave and it tore at her heart.

‘That's it my little love, just one more week.'

As the call ended, Hugo stared at her and once again put his hand on her shin.

‘I wish things were easier, I wish things were different, but never doubt that I love you.'

She stared at her husband and smiled faintly, still wondering, despite his denial, if he'd ever said this to Mrs Peterson.