Having It All Page 16

  But Mel didn’t answer. She was staring at a man and a woman who had just walked into the restaurant and were standing with their backs towards Liz waiting to be shown to their table. With a blinding flash of horror Liz saw why Mel was transfixed by them.

  The man was David.

  The woman with him had just sat down and been handed an enormous menu. All Liz could see of her was short blonde hair and an expensive white suit.

  Suddenly Liz turned cold. It could have been anyone, David had working lunches every day of the week, but she knew instinctively that this wasn’t a working lunch. This was her. A knot of panic seized her stomach and turned it over violently. What should she do? No matter what Mel said about riding it out she couldn’t sit here calmly and pretend this wasn’t happening.

  Neither of them had seen Liz and Mel in the far corner of the restaurant and as the woman turned to ask the waiter a question Liz saw with amazement that it was Britt. A wave of warm, reassuring relief flowed through her, making her almost laugh out loud. Smiling, she jumped to her feet and headed in their direction wondering why David hadn’t mentioned he was lunching with Britt. But then it hadn’t been much of a morning for small talk.

  A few feet from their table she smelt the strong musky tones of the perfume Britt always wore and she stood still for a second, trying to think why she recognized it.

  Suddenly the truth exploded into her mind with such force that it almost sent her reeling. It had been on David’s clothes. And for the first time she knew with absolute certainty who it was that David was having the affair with. It wasn’t a PR bimbo, or an adoring secretary or a starry-eyed reporter. It was Britt.

  And now David had seen her. Like Mel, he sat immobile, his conversation dying on his lips as she walked towards him. And for a split second she saw an answering panic in his eyes too.

  Never ask. Mel’s mother’s recipe for marital happiness rang in her ears, mocking her.

  ‘Are you having an affair with Britt?’ she asked in a low clear voice.

  All around them heads swung round, Britt’s included.

  David said nothing. And she remembered what a bad liar he was. It was one of the things she’d always liked about him. She’d thought it meant you could trust him.

  ‘I suppose it was all her fault.’ Liz refused to look at Britt. Britt the Bitch. Britt the Betrayer.

  Slowly David looked up at her, not letting himself off the hook. ‘No it wasn’t all her fault.’ His voice sounded tired. ‘I’m sorry, Liz. I really am.’

  All her life she’d had trouble losing her temper, but now she felt anger, blessed and cleansing, bubble up inside her. And though she’d never done anything like this ever before she raised her long-stemmed glass quite slowly and deliberately and threw the wine in his face, noting with pleasure that it soaked Britt’s white suit as well.

  And she heard her own voice say, with surprising control, ‘I think you’d better move out.’ For a moment David said nothing. If only he’d say, Don’t Liz, let’s talk about this! maybe they could still save their marriage.

  But he didn’t.

  ‘Yes.’ She could hear the deadness in his voice and she knew that it was too late, that whatever feeling he’d had for her was over. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, ‘perhaps I had.’

  As Liz glanced round the restaurant the other diners quickly looked back at their plates, but she knew they’d heard every word. Mustering her dignity she turned round. At least I look my best, she thought irrelevantly, not the downtrodden wife.

  The moment felt so unreal that she half expected a round of applause. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself, as she walked blindly out of the restaurant. This isn’t the adverts. This is Real Life. And as she hailed a cab the tears she’d been desperately fighting off, praying she’d at least be left with her dignity, finally began to fall till they streaked her careful make-up and stained the bright yellow of her favourite suit.

  CHAPTER 15

  The house was mercifully empty when she got back. She couldn’t cope with facing Jamie and Daisy at the moment, she needed to be by herself. Mel had come running after her and had tried to insist on coming back with her but she’d refused. There are moments in life when no one can help you and this was one of them. There are times when you want to cry and wallow and lose yourself in your misery. Only then, when the crying is over, do you want to talk about it. And then you can’t talk enough. You crave endless reruns of every scene, desperate to analyse each word, each nuance of every conversation you ever had that led inexorably towards this disaster.

  For now she just wanted to cry. She had been brave in the restaurant when it had mattered, and now she didn’t want to be brave any more. But now that she wanted them, the tears wouldn’t come and she lay on her bed, their bed, numb and empty, looking around at the trophies of their dead marriage. Wedding photographs. Mementoes of happy holidays. An old Mother’s Day card. And then, on the bedroom floor, she saw the toy that David had tripped over this morning, a century before, and she began finally to cry. Huge, racking sobs that shook her body, until her head was aching and her throat was sore, and she wished desperately for her own mother and knew that she was an adult, alone and beyond her mother’s help, that her mother wasn’t strong enough to be burdened with her grief, had had enough of her own, until finally she curled into the foetal position and fell asleep.

  An hour later she drifted back into consciousness like a diver who fights to get up for air yet knows there is terrible danger waiting for him on the surface.

  OhGodOhGodOhGod. Let it not be true! Don’t let my life have fallen apart just when I thought it was coming together!

  And as she climbed out of bed the awful realization hit her that the worst was still to come: she had to tell the children. And what on earth would she tell them? The truth, or some gentle lie to soften the blow? What would be easier for them in the long run?

  For a moment a wave of bitterness washed over her. Why was it always she who picked up the pieces? Because you wanted to be at the centre of your family, the lynchpin of their lives. And this is the price you pay. The pain as well as the pleasure.

  Slowly she sat up and stared at the bedside clock. Four o’clock. Susie had obviously taken the children out to tea. That should give her at least an hour to pack David’s things and call a taxi before they got back.

  Carefully she locked the bedroom door in case they came back early and wanted to see what she was doing. She took his suitcases from the wardrobe and began to pack, a joyless parody of the countless times she’d packed for weekends away, or holidays abroad. Happy times. Now there would be no more weekends or holidays.

  Methodically she searched the room for every item of clothing, every possession or knicknack of David’s, wanting to exorcize his presence from her life as well as from their bedroom. But even after every shirt and jacket, every pair of trousers, the last bottle of aftershave, even after his tennis racket was neatly packed away, his presence still seemed all around her. The Lego truck he had helped Jamie build only yesterday, the small piles of change he took from his trouser pockets to stop them bulging, even the empty wardrobe reminded her agonizingly of David, his energy and immediacy, the way he made life fun. And for the second time she sat down and began to cry.

  Willing herself to get up, knowing that if she didn’t she might never get up again, she started to zip up David’s cases with unaccustomed violence. She loved the sound of zips closing. Like something tearing.

  For a moment she closed her eyes and imagined the sound of reasonable Liz Ward calmly tearing up every shred of clothing Britt Williams owned. It was a wonderful sound. She’d read of discarded lovers who shredded their rival’s clothes and posted them through their letter box. How could anyone be so vindictive, she’d always wondered. Now she knew.

  She lifted the suitcases and started to carry them to the door. Halfway across the bedroom she noticed a photograph of herself and the children in a silver frame. Quickly she unzipped one of the pockets and
slipped it in. She’d like him at least to remember what he’d lost. What screwing Britt had cost him. And picking up the suitcases again she hoped he’d realize it hadn’t been worth it.

  ‘Mummy, what are you doing with Daddy’s things?’

  Liz whipped round when she heard Jamie’s voice. She hadn’t even heard them all come back in. And hadn’t she locked the door? Oh God she’d forgotten the door of the en suite bathroom. Slowly she put down the suitcases and looked at him. None of her management training, nor her stand up battles with Conrad, nor her endless negotiations for money or airtime had prepared her for this, the worst moment of her life.

  ‘Come and sit down, darling.’ She lifted him on to her knee and held him very tight. As she looked into his eyes, the wariness she found there almost made her break down. You’re going to hurt me, aren’t you? they seemed to say. No matter how you beat about the bush that’s what it comes down to.

  She had thought she would tell him the truth: that Mummy and Daddy didn’t love each other any more. But now she knew she couldn’t. He deserved better. He deserved a lie.

  ‘You know how busy Daddy is? Well he’s going away on business for a while, that’s why I’ve packed his cases.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Not for a while, darling.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A few months. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you, darling. Daddy loves you very very much.’

  Jamie looked at her suspiciously: ‘Are you splitting up?’ Liz looked at him amazed. ‘Tom’s parents are splitting up, their nanny told Susie, and Katie’s parents split up last term.’

  God Almighty, what are we doing to our children, Liz asked herself, that they understand such things at five years old?

  ‘Yes, darling, we’re splitting up,’ and, unable to stop herself, she added, ‘for the moment.’

  ‘Is it because I left my Ghostbusters on the stairs this morning?’

  ‘No darling, it’s not because of you, I promise. It’s between Mummy and Daddy.’

  Jamie looked at her disbelievingly as he slid off the bed and slipped quietly from the room.

  A moment later he was back, his arms loaded with toys which he dumped carefully in her lap. ‘If I give all my Ghostbusters to Ben, will Daddy come back?’

  Liz had to turn away to stop him seeing her tears. His Ghostbusters were his pride and joy. But how could she tell him that all the Ghostbusters in Hamleys wouldn’t bring Daddy home? Daddy had a new toy now.

  Britt stood open-mouthed as the taxi driver unloaded two huge suitcases, an overnight bag, an assortment of tennis and squash rackets, a standard lamp and an ancient moth-eaten overcoat on to the deep pile of her new cream carpet and cheerily informed her that there was £22 to pay. For a moment she thought about sending it on to a hotel but she knew David well enough to guess that, handled wrongly, he would go straight back to Liz. And although her intentions at the beginning of their affair had been strictly dishonourable, over the last few weeks she’d grown fonder of him than of any other man she’d ever known.

  Britt surveyed the vast pile of luggage and sat down in the hall next to it. God, what a mess! She couldn’t remember a worse day. She hadn’t meant to hurt Liz, and she certainly hadn’t intended breaking up her marriage. She’d persuaded herself that a little fling Liz never found out about couldn’t do any real harm. Then she’d gone and fallen in love, for Christ’s sake! With her best friend’s husband of all people. She. Who always played by the rules, even if the rules were her own and might not pass the tests of conventional morality. But love made you careless. And it had made her break her first rule with married men: never eat in trendy restaurants and never, never ask them to stay overnight.

  And this was the result.

  Liz sat at the desk in their bedroom and stared into space. It was nine-thirty and she was exhausted. Jamie had cried himself to sleep at last and Daisy, picking up his mood without understanding why, had refused to settle and wailed miserably until Liz finally rocked her to sleep ten minutes ago.

  Now she was sitting with a large gin and tonic and a calculator working out their finances. She’d certainly picked her moment to leave Metro. Without her salary she had about eight thousand pounds in savings. With the mortgage and bills on this place it wouldn’t last five minutes. So, should she get another job in television? No, that would mean it had all been for nothing. Now it was more important than ever that they find a new life that was better than the old. Otherwise she would have lost David and her career and she still wouldn’t see her children. She had to find a way of living on her savings till she knew what she was going to do.

  She took a large gulp of G and T. Maybe she should bite the bullet and accept that now they wouldn’t be needing this huge place. But getting rid of it seemed somehow so final. And anyway it wasn’t the answer to her immediate cash problems. Selling would take six months, maybe more. And it would need David’s agreement.

  Of course, now that she’d left Metro she didn’t need to be in London at all. It was kind of Susie to offer to stay on but Liz could look after the kids herself. They’d need her more than ever now that David had gone. And then the answer came to her. They’d go to the cottage! She’d be near her mother and Ginny. And the children loved it in Sussex. It would be like going home.

  It was the perfect solution. There was nothing to keep her here without her job or David. Besides, she needed to get away from the memories. Everything here reminded her of him. And there would be one other advantage: she’d be miles away from the bitching and the gossip when London found to its delight that the perfect media marriage was in ruins.

  For a moment she wondered how they would get on at Metro without her. Would Conrad have given the job to Claudia by now? They were probably out celebrating at The Groucho at this very moment. Firmly she put the thought out of her mind.

  She started to make a list of all the things they’d need. Now that she’d made up her mind, there was no point hanging around. They’d go tomorrow. She’d get away from London where people shafted and screwed each other and start again. And this time she’d learn to be a real mother. Like Ginny.

  CHAPTER 16

  ‘Mum, have you packed my Zog, Evil Master of the Outreach?’

  Liz tried not to lose her temper and unpacked the car for the third time. First Daisy had lost her precious blanket, then Liz had realized the map was under the suitcases. And now Zog. Secretly she hoped he was lost for ever along with Thor, the Faceless One and Yag, Lord of all the Zoids. But just at the moment Jamie needed all the friends he could get.

  She found Zog in the picnic basket and handed him over to Jamie. Suddenly the memory of David teasing him unmercifully leapt into her memory and almost started her crying again.

  ‘Playing with dolls at your age?’ David used to grin. ‘They’re not dolls!’ Jamie would scream, outraged at this assault on his five-year-old virility. ‘Of course they’re dolls,’ David would laugh, ‘just like Daisy’s.’ And then seeing Jamie’s distress he would lift him up and hold him. ‘OK, old son, of course they’re not dolls. Silly old Dad.’ And Jamie would put his arms round David and shake his head. ‘Silly old Dad,’ he’d shout, ‘Silly old Dad!’

  She was suddenly glad to be getting away from this houseful of memories that now seemed so empty. It was funny, David was at work so much and away so often that foolishly she’d thought it would lessen the impact of his departure. Instead it left a huge, gaping hole in their lives. Without his noisy games and relentless energy the whole house seemed in mourning.

  But when the moment finally came to say goodbye to Susie, who would be packing her own bags and going off to stay with her parents until she started her new job in a few days’ time, Liz felt the tears start up again. Mercifully it took all her concentration to inch her way past the mountain of stinking black rubbish bags spewing on to the pavement behind her and out of the parking space in front of their home. Why hadn’t the dustmen been? Then she remembered
they had. Some brave householder must have forgotten their Christmas tip last year and was still paying the price ten months on.

  And with Susie waving frantically at last they were away. As she drove through the midday streets, choked with traffic jams and aggressive drivers, she wondered what she’d miss about London. The galleries? The theatre? The smart shops?

  But she never went to galleries, never had time for theatres or wine bars after work and with children shopping for clothes was a dimly remembered dream. She worked. And she had kids. That was it.

  So what did people like her do in this exciting, stimulating city which was the art capital of the world, the hub of opera, of finance, the home of street fashion, the city where they invented the punk?

  They went to dinner with other people who had children too and complained about schools, and the standard of health care and litter on the streets, that’s what. In London, dinner party conversation ranged daringly from private versus state education, through car theft and mugging to the relative merits of having a burglar alarm on the front of your house that everyone ignored, including the burglar, to one that went off in the police station and everyone ignored there instead.

  Once Liz had spent a full half-hour at a party engrossed in a conversation about Neighbourhood Watch with a man whose face she vaguely recognized, only to find later that he was a world-famous writer all of whose books she’d actually read. ‘Oh God, what a waste,’ she’d cried to her hosts, ‘I could have talked to him about his novels.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said her friends, ‘he’s much more interested in talking about Neighbourhood Watch like everyone else.’

  That was London for you.

  And as she drove out through the dirty streets it was almost as though things had been arranged to make her leaving painless. A cute ten-year-old swore at his friend, over some imagined slight, his face contorted with hate and rage; a young man in a fast car cut her up and, when she hooted in mild protest, rolled down his window and barraged her with a litany of four-letter words. On the pavement she saw a skinhead walking a bulldog in a jewelled harness slavering and tugging to get at an old lady’s pet poodle. And she felt an unexpected relief that she was leaving the city.