The Second Wife aka Wives Behaving Badly

of course you wouldn’t. You knew perfectly well that she had to concentrate on Christmas Day’ She stopped, eyes on the empty plate in front of her and, as a great concession, said, ‘Maybe I will have one sandwich. Actually, Jilly doesn’t need to worry. Mum will take over cooking the lunch. She does it so brilliantly’

I sneaked a glance at Nathan. He was still cuddling Lucas, and talking to Richard but I detected a wary, whipped look in his eye. There were not many occasions when I felt protective but Poppy’s words triggered a novel rush of fury. Nathan was hurt, and would continue to be hurt, by these women: his daughter and his daughter-in- law.

My amended ‘Events’ list read: ‘Christmas at number seven. Turkey, roast potatoes, Christmas pudding for 4.’

6

On the way to work, I met Martin Hurley. It was Monday, January, very cold, and I was still recovering from Christmas. Unusually for Martin, he was mooching along, weighed down by his briefcase. We stopped to chat outside Mrs Austen’s front garden where frost smeared the jumble of flowerpots and yoghurt cartons that, typically, lurked on the windowsill. Mrs Austen was a fanatical gardener, but as she lived in the first-floor flat of the multi- occupied house, she had no proper space to indulge her passion. It was lack in a life such as Mrs Austen’s that turned a man or a woman sharp-tongued, nosy and tart as a lemon, and on cue, she appeared at the window.

‘Not your usual style, is it?’ I said. I normally saw Martin stepping into a chauffeur-driven car.

‘Broken down.’ He made a mischievous face. Actually, I feel as if I’ve been let off school. Big meeting today and I wouldn’t mind escaping. I keep thinking I could go AWOL travelling the District Line.’

I smiled. We both knew that Martin wouldn’t miss the meeting for the world. His meetings, as with so many people who worked, ratified his professional existence. ‘I doubt if you’d think Ealing or Hainault a destination resort, and after two seconds on the Tube, you’ll be begging for a fleet of cars. Trust me.’

‘I do trust you,’ he said, which was nice, and also unexpected. It would have been wrong to dismiss Martin as a one-dimensional man, focused only on meetings. He was discriminating, and generous with many things. Even money. Also, he was nice about his wife, which not every husband was. From time to time, when Nathan and I were chez Hurley, I caught Martin observing Paige carefully. It was a version of paying attention to the fine detail, which had made him such a success at work.

Snooping from the window was not yielding enough rewards and Mrs Austen emerged on to the front step to edge closer to this interesting street theatre. I waved at her. ‘Paige OK?’ I asked Martin.

‘So-so. Pregnancy is an exclusive business. Unlike conception.’

Are you looking forward to number three?’

Martin didn’t reply immediately, and when he did he sounded a little troubled. ‘It’s very crowded – life, I mean.’

That worried me a little. ‘Too cryptic for this time of the morning, Martin.’

‘I feel cryptic, Minty. Never mind. Now for the meeting.’ He dropped a kiss on my cheek. ‘See you.’ He raised his briefcase in salute to the watchful Mrs Austen, and we went our separate ways.

Sandwiched between bodies on a packed train, I began to wonder in earnest about Paige and Martin. ‘I’m practically the only mother in the world prepared to put her children first,’ Paige had maintained, and she wasn’t entirely joking. ‘It’s lonely. If we go on like this, there’ll be no population in the West. Look at Italy. Look at Germany. Child-free countries.’ Paige’s zeal was both heartbreaking and infuriating: a missionary among the heathens. Yet there was something reassuring about her straightforward outlook, which did not involve any of the ifs and buts that draw the sting of rules and regulations.

Barry sauntered into my office, but his greeting was sharp. ‘What kept you?’

I cursed inwardly and flushed: I was twenty minutes late. ‘Sorry, Barry. The Tube.’

He glanced at his Rolex. ‘You can make it up later.’

He threw himself into a chair. ‘I’ve got a tricky day. We need the green light for the Aids film, so say your prayers.’ He was dressed in a dark Armani suit and red tie, which meant Big Meeting and probably explained the sharpness. He smelt of aftershave, and a hint of claret from the night before.

Again he checked his watch. ‘Five minutes before the off, and I’m going to waste them with you.’

What’s up with Gabrielle? hovered on the tip of my tongue, but I resisted. On closer inspection, Barry’s collar points were not quite adjusted. Then I understand that he did not, at this moment, require the diversion of a superb body and a sexy giggle. What Barry needed was an adult, sensible, grounding conversation before he went into a Big Meeting. As we talked, I was unsure whether to cry because I no longer occupied the pretty-and-diverting category, or laugh because I had been elevated to ‘serious’.

Barry departed, and I was left to beat the working day into shape. I went through my in-tray and sorted it into ‘urgent’ and ‘pending’. Rose had taught me the tricks and procedures of an office, and the lessons remained with me. Funny, that: she had handed me professionalism and her husband on a plate. I wrote a report, made phone calls. I read scripts until my eyes blurred.

Eventually I pulled the file marked ‘Middle Age’ towards me. I had been avoiding it. Definitely. I opened my notebook and wrote: (1) What is the story? (2) Why are we proposing it? (3) Who will make it? (4) Likely costs?

What was there to say? Wasn’t middle age a furtive, secretive stage? When I’d bought my first bra, there was no one I didn’t buttonhole with the news. Ask the spirit of my dead, unsympathetic mother. But I’d rather die than reveal the existence of a varicose vein in my leg. (Thank you, twins.) I had no desire to discuss my body’s slippage. The first blows of age. It was akin to tourists tramping round a ruin. And which of us would volunteer to examine the mistakes, guilt, regret or banalities of working, nurturing and fretting? Who wished to acknowledge the loneliness of growing older?

‘When middle age creeps up on a woman, she discovers that younger women are just as much wolves as men,’ a newspaper pundit stated in one of the cuttings that Deb had handed over. On that point, I conceded, I was the expert.

I remembered playing the wolf…

Nathan had tracked me down in Bonne Tartine. He must have followed me from the Vistemax offices. He slid into the opposite seat, then nodded at my coffee and the plate on which sat a tiny, untouched croissant. He seemed inordinately pleased with himself, his expression absurdly young and his hair ruffled. ‘Is that just there for temptation?’

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘I watched and waited.’

I swallowed the uneven lump of excitement and apprehension: now that I had got to this point, questions needed to be asked. ‘What about Rose?’

Carefully, Nathan cut the croissant into pieces. ‘Rose is busy with her own life.’ He paused. ‘All things considered, I don’t think she’d mind. I’ve never been her first concern…’ He leant forward and began to feed me the croissant. Its sweet, crumbling texture dissolved in my mouth, and I thought, Rose must be mad or stupid to be so blind.

‘Why did you do it?’ asked the forty-two-year-old Rose, after I had taken Nathan. ‘We were friends.’

Yes, we had been friends. Sweet, sweet friends…

‘You look stuck in.’ Deb sashayed into my office. ‘Anything I should know about?’ Uninvited, she perched on the edge of my desk, and I suppressed the desire to push her off.

‘OK.’ I sat back. ‘Do women feel middle age more acutely than men?’

‘God, I don’t know’ Deb gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘Isn’t it all over for the middle-aged, whichever sex?’ Her eyes drifted past me towards Reception in case anyone useful was waiting.

‘I think my husband feels it.’

Deb transferred her attention back to me. ‘Barry says you’re a second wife. Is he a lot older? Is he nice?’

‘He’s very nice,’ I said flatly. ‘That’s why I married him.’