JULY2002
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 andI’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 wasthat 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!’
