Читать книгу The Man I Fell In Love With - Kate Field - Страница 9

The envelope arrived on a cold day in late March during the Easter holidays, landing on the doormat with a thud that I heard from the kitchen, and which seemed to shake the entire house. I didn’t need to open it to know what was inside. I didn’t want to open it and make it real. I left it on the hall table, pulled on a coat, hat, and wellies, and took Dotty for a walk.

The footpaths around the village were quiet as I trudged through the slushy remnants of the snow that had fallen earlier in the week. It was mid-week: work would have deterred some of the usual dog-walkers, the bad weather many of the others. But Owen Ferguson emerged from the front path of a neat stone terrace as I passed, and hesitated, as if deciding whether to force his company on me or to turn in the opposite direction. I smiled and he must have made up his mind, as he fell into step beside me as we headed towards the centre of Stoneybrook.

He was wearing a black beanie hat, very much like one I had bought for Leo a couple of years ago. It suited him. His greyhound was wearing an extraordinary hot pink quilted coat, with a zebra print trim.

‘It wasn’t my choice,’ he said, acknowledging my vain attempt to disguise my surprise. ‘I inherited it.’

‘A dog jacket? That wasn’t a generous legacy. Lucky you had a dog it fits.’

‘I inherited the dog too. It was a complete package.’ He quickened his pace to keep up with me; Dotty was either eager to complete our circuit and get home, or determined to beat a greyhound. ‘My neighbour adopted her from a greyhound rescue charity, but then was diagnosed with a terminal illness. I agreed to take on Lucilla.’

‘Lucilla?’ I tried not to laugh: it was a perfect name for the aloof animal, but I couldn’t imagine Owen calling for her in the park.

‘She won’t answer to anything else. Or wear any other coat.’

‘What colour did you want her to wear? Navy blue like the Broadholme uniform?’

He grimaced. ‘Anything but that. Are your children not with you for the holiday?’

‘Ava’s at Pony Club, and Jonas is revising with a friend,’ I said. ‘Do you have children?’

‘Two boys. They live with my ex-wife in Scotland. I’ll have them next week.’

It occurred to me, then, that I had misunderstood Owen’s question. He hadn’t meant were Jonas and Ava with me today; he had meant were they living with me this week. It was the question of a divorced parent – from one to another. It didn’t matter whether I’d opened the envelope or not. I was one of them now.

‘I think someone’s trying to get your attention,’ Owen said, and gestured towards the semi we were passing. Daisy was standing in the front window, banging on the glass and then beckoning inside with both arms.

‘It’s Daisy. Mrs Flood,’ I added, in case he needed her parents’ evening name to place her. ‘I’d better see what she wants. Enjoy the rest of your walk. And enjoy next week with your boys if I don’t see you before then.’

‘I will.’ The words were heartfelt, and his face transformed at the mention of his children, in the same way that Leo’s did. I pulled Dotty back down the street and walked up Daisy’s front path. Daisy opened the door before I was halfway there.

‘I need your tongue!’ she cried, in a voice of loud melodrama that must have carried as far as Owen, as he turned and looked back at us before walking on. ‘Mine’s exhausted, and I still have over two hundred envelopes to lick.’

Daisy and I had been friends for years, since our daughters had started in Reception class at Broadholme at the same time. She had a part-time job working as an admin assistant for our local MP, who spent a lot of money on printing leaflets saying how fabulous he was, leaving him with no money left for self-seal envelopes. It was a thankless job – quite literally, as I had seen for myself that the MP barely knew Daisy’s name – and it paid a pittance, but she needed every penny. Her ex-husband had backed her into a financial corner, offering to pay for their daughter to stay on at Broadholme only if Daisy accepted a meagre maintenance payment for herself. I was lucky, by contrast; something I tried to convince myself every day.

‘What’s all this in aid of?’ I asked, picking up one of the leaflets that lay in a pile on Daisy’s dining table. ‘The general election is over a year away. I hope he isn’t going to bombard us from now until then.’

‘Of course he is. We’re a marginal seat. This is his new idea. He’s going to send out a newsletter every two months to remind the voters about how much he does.’ I made a mental note to avoid Daisy’s house in two months’ time. ‘Was that Mr Ferguson I saw you with?’

That was the thing about Daisy: she looked a fluffy airhead, but had an amazing mind for detail. It was either one of her most endearing or her most annoying characteristics.

‘It was.’ I stuffed and licked my first envelope, hoping it might deter Daisy from further questioning. No such luck.

‘Sorry, was I interrupting something?’ she asked, grinning. ‘You needn’t have come in if you were busy.’

‘If I’d known that this was all you wanted me for, I’d have stayed with Owen,’ I replied, grimacing at the taste of the cheap glue.

‘Owen? Since when did you reach first-name terms?’

‘We’ve bumped into each other dog walking a few times.’

‘I always knew you were a dark horse, Mary Black. Under that calm, unflappable exterior, there’s a whacking great man magnet, isn’t there?’

We both laughed at that: Daisy knew perfectly well that I had been with Leo forever. No one had ever asked me out, or propositioned me, or made a pass or whatever it was called now. Not even Leo: as teenagers, we had drifted into something more than friendship, and I had been the one to push it to the next level.

‘Owen’s not bad looking,’ Daisy continued. She held up one of the leaflets, on which she’d carefully drawn a moustache, beard and horns on a photograph of her employer, and smiled as she pushed it into an envelope. ‘It’s a shame he’s so tall. We’d look ridiculous together. You should definitely consider him. He’s an art teacher, so you know what that means. He can do great things with his hands.’ She laughed. ‘Or has he already taught you that?’

‘Of course not. I’m married.’ I thought about the envelope sitting on my hall table. ‘Half married.’

‘Half married?’ Daisy paused in her licking. ‘You don’t mean the decree nisi has been granted already?’

I nodded. ‘Clark has some extremely efficient solicitor friends. Apparently we’re lucky that it’s all gone through so quickly. At least, I presume it’s gone through. There’s a letter from my solicitor at home. I couldn’t face opening it.’

‘Oh, Mary.’ Daisy reached across the table and squeezed my hand. ‘Ignoring it won’t make it go away. Why did it have to be so rushed? You’ve hardly had chance to get used to the idea. It’s not like Leo to be so unfair.’

‘It’s not Leo’s fault. I agreed to it.’

He had asked for a divorce two days after Christmas, on the day he had left our home and moved in with Clark. He didn’t want to be an adulterer for any longer than necessary; his relationship with Clark deserved to be more than an extra-marital affair. He had been generous with financial arrangements; I had been generous about sharing the children. I had signed all the paperwork and returned it promptly, in my usual calm and efficient way.

‘There’s nothing to stop you seeing Mr Ferguson, then, is there? Or someone else. Have you thought about online dating? I can help you fill out a profile, if you like. It will be fun!’

‘About as much fun as peeling off all my nails one by one. It’s too soon.’ I didn’t add that it would always seem too soon.

‘Too soon? Come off it. Leo was seeing Clark while you were still married. You’re being positively patient.’ She withdrew her hand and scooped up another pile of leaflets. ‘It’s been three years since James left me. Loneliness doesn’t become any easier with time, trust me on that. You might not be ready to look, but don’t walk round with your eyes closed, okay?’

Leo was waiting in his car when I finally arrived home with Dotty. She leapt on him as he got out, wagging her whole body and licking every part of him she could reach. Perhaps if I had ever greeted him like that, he wouldn’t have needed Clark.

He followed me into the house and immediately picked up the envelope from the hall table. The printed stamp from the solicitors’ office gave away what it was.

‘You haven’t opened it.’

‘Not yet, I …’ No excuse sprang to mind. I didn’t lie to Leo. ‘Is it about the decree nisi?’

‘Probably. It was granted yesterday.’

I couldn’t avoid it any longer, and it didn’t seem so bad with his gentle eyes watching me. I tore open the envelope, and there it was in black and white: confirmation that we were halfway to being divorced.

Leo took the letter from my shaking hand, dropped it on the table, and drew me into a hug. It was the closest physical contact we’d had for months.

‘Oh, Mary,’ he murmured against my hair. ‘I’m sorry. I never imagined we would come to this. You deserved better than me.’

‘No. I wouldn’t change a thing.’ I leant into him, feeling the soft squishiness of his chest, inhaling the scent of the Johnson’s baby shampoo he had used for as long as I had known him. I tightened my arms round him, and enjoyed the moment: but it was comfort I felt, not desire. Leo was a safe and familiar world. I missed it.

‘Will you be okay on your own tonight?’ he asked, pulling away. ‘I can come back for Jonas and Ava in the morning instead.’

‘No, they’re looking forward to seeing you.’ And to not seeing me for two days, at least as far as Ava was concerned. I could do no right in her eyes at the moment. ‘Besides, I won’t be on my own.’

‘You won’t?’

It was too gloomy in the hall to see Leo’s expression, so I was sure I must have misinterpreted the tone of his voice. He had no reason to be jealous, and even less reason to be cross.

‘Daisy has invited herself round for a drink later,’ I explained. I reached the study door and threw it open, so that the bright light filled the hall. Leo smiled.

‘It could never be a single drink with Daisy. Don’t let her lead you astray.’

‘I can’t afford to let her lead me astray.’

Leo let that go with a soft sigh. Even without a mortgage on this house, it had been hard to divide the wage from Leo’s university job between two households. I had no independent income: the research work I did for Leo’s academic studies filled much of my day and left no time for paid employment. I worked for love – of the subject, as much as of him. I had started off by supporting Leo’s obsession with Alice Hornby’s novels, but had soon come to share it, and I couldn’t give up the work now, however awkward it might be. We had spent years writing the new biography, with the prime intention of spreading the word about how brilliant Alice was. Now the stakes were raised: we needed the book to be a financial success too.

The study was exactly as it had always been: one large desk in the centre of the room, with chairs on either side, one for Leo and one for me. A battered sofa filled one wall, stuffed bookcases the others. I had hated this room growing up; my mother had used it to store all my father’s belongings, giving me false hope for years that she had known he was coming back. As soon as Leo and I moved in, I had hired a skip and thrown away everything that had been his or theirs. Now it was my favourite room in the house.

Leo sat in his chair and set up his laptop. We had a couple of hours to work before the children arrived home.

‘Is everything ready for the launch?’ he asked. The biography was being published in a couple of weeks, and the publishers were marking the launch with a party at the Manchester Central Library.

‘Yes. Here’s a first draft of your speech.’ I pushed a sheaf of paper across the desk. I always wrote Leo’s speeches for him. He was brilliant when giving a university lecture, but his style didn’t suit a public event so well. ‘I’ve arranged for Claire to look after you on the night, so she’ll make sure you’re in the right place and give you a nudge when it’s time to give your speech.’

‘Claire?’ Leo looked up from the paper.

‘From the publishing company. You’ve met her before. Luscious red hair and 1940s curves …’

Leo still looked blank. It had been a comfort in the past, his complete indifference to other women. Little had I known.

‘But why do I need Claire? You normally do that.’

‘I won’t be there.’

‘Why not? Is there something on at school? We arranged this months ago.’

That was exactly the point. We had arranged it months ago, at a time when I, at least, thought we were contentedly married. For a professor, he could be incredibly dense.

‘I’ve attended in the past as your wife. You have a new one now. A new partner, that is.’ I picked up a paperclip and started untwisting it. ‘Clark will be going with you, won’t he?’

‘He’ll be there. I need you too.’ Leo eased the paperclip from my fingers. ‘You deserve to be there. This book would never have been written without you. It’s as much yours as mine.’

The front cover told a different story: it only bore his name, just as the annotated novels had done when they were published. I hadn’t minded before – or not much. We were a team, and he was the public face of it. So why did a tiny niggle of resentment rise and stick in my throat now?

‘Okay, I’ll come. And the party at Foxwood Farm too?’

‘Of course. That was your idea. You must be there. Will I need a speech for that?’

‘No. I’ll pick a short passage for you to read from the biography. Lindsay, who’s organising the event, wants it to be an informal celebration of all things Lancastrian: literature, music, food, drink. The press will be there, as she’s hoping to drum up more business as a party and events venue. Hopefully we’ll have some un-Lancastrian weather, so we can use the courtyard outside as well as the main barn.’

Leo fought but failed to hide a grimace. It had taken a great deal of persusasion to convince him to support the event at Foxwood Farm, even though it was on the outskirts of the village; I hoped he wasn’t thinking of backing out now he would have to travel up from Manchester. He didn’t enjoy the brazen commerce of launching a book, and preferred to focus his attention on the academic side, leaving me and my lower sensitivities to deal with the business elements. Luckily I loved the promotion aspect, but I was going to have to work even harder this time.

‘After the official launch, I’m going to tour around local independent bookshops to see if any are interested in stocking it, or even holding an event with you, a signing or something like that.’

Leo pulled his face again.

‘Will they want an academic book?’

‘Don’t call it that. We agreed we weren’t going to market it as an academic book. It will appeal to the general public too. That’s why we worked so hard on getting the tone right.’

It’s why I had worked so hard on the tone, ignoring Leo’s flights of academia: having read too many turgid biographies during my degree, I was determined that Leo’s wouldn’t be one of them. And we’d got it right, I was sure of it: Alice Hornby, the quiet gentleman’s daughter who had written passionate novels of love and desire from the secrecy of her bedroom, had come to life in our book, strolling through the paragraphs, her voice echoing with every turn of the page and her scent lingering above the words. It was a romance as much as a biography, designed to make readers fall in love with Alice as Leo and I had done.

‘I know you’ll do your best,’ Leo said. ‘If anyone can sell Alice, you can.’ He smiled, acknowledging our shared passion, but my response was half-hearted, too conscious that it was the only passion we now shared; in truth, the only passion we had shared for years. ‘But while you’re doing that, we need to start on our next project.’ His smile withered. ‘I’ve agreed to write that book I was asked to consider a few months ago – the one about Victorian writers. How society influenced them, and how they influenced society.’

‘But I thought you turned that down!’ He hadn’t been keen on the idea at all. The brief had been to include at least three chapters on the Brontës, which was like asking a Manchester United fan to spend a season promoting Manchester City.

‘I didn’t take it up. We were busy finishing Alice’s book at the time. Circumstances have changed now.’

‘You mean we need the money.’ There was no other explanation: it was literary prostitution, and it was devastating to see Leo caught up in it, even if part of me whispered that he had brought it on himself.

‘It would certainly help. From now on I will have to accept whatever I’m offered. If only we could find Alice’s lost novel! That would change all our fortunes.’ It was the enduring mystery of Alice Hornby: four books had been published, but a few surviving records had dropped tantalising hints that she may have worked on another, that no one had ever seen. Leo sighed. ‘But after all our years of searching, what are the chances of that?’