Opal cut her off. Debbie had a tendency to babble and judging by the rising scarlet of her cheeks, the balance of embarrassment was tipping. ‘It’s fine, Debbie, honestly. I’m fine, I just overslept.’
Debbie eyed her suspiciously. ‘That’s very unlike you,’ she said softly.
Opal shrugged. This was all uncharted territory, because it was true: this was very unlike her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d missed an appointment, or faced anyone other than Martin in anything less than a full face of makeup. Now here she was dishevelled, in front of Deborah no less, who by contrast was impeccably put together.
Her dark hair was coiffed into an impossible height and width. Her fuchsia lips were shaped with doll-like precision, and perfectly matching whatever semi-precious gem was encased in the large gold pendants dangling from each ear. She cocked her head to the side, no doubt examining Opal for signs of a psychotic break.
‘I’m …’ Opal sighed loudly, resentful for having to explain herself. ‘I’m having a hard time. I think that Martin is having an affair.’ It came out unexpectedly. She had intended to stop talking after the first sentence, but then the words were out there, hanging in the air between them.
Deborah looked taken aback. She stumbled slightly, and then sat down on the bed, her head in her hands. Opal wondered if she knew; maybe this was the look of a woman having her suspicions confirmed that her teenage daughter was being fucked by a forty-year-old man. Opal, only having ever been able to imagine motherhood, nonetheless felt her pain.
‘I’m so sorry. That’s so awful.’ When Deborah looked up, her own mascara threatened to blur, her pale watery eyes brimming. She stood up suddenly and before Opal knew what was happening, she’d been enveloped into a perfumed hug.
‘Pol, I really feel for you. Let me know if there’s anything Ican do,’ Deborah whispered into her shoulder. Opal remained stiff until Deborah pulled away. Maybe this was guilt?
‘Do you know who with?’ The genuine curiosity in Deborah’s voice surprised Opal. It seemed she didn’t know.
‘Umm … no, I-I just found a umm …’ Opal waved her hands around vaguely, trying to muster up an alternative to the truth ‘… a lipstick stain on the collar of his shirt.’ She wasn’t ready to graduate from being the receiver of bad news to the bearer of it – not yet.
‘That scoundrel.’ Deborah shook her head furiously, and Opal realised that what she was witnessing was genuine outrage – more than that it was genuine sympathy.
Opal had never been good at having friends, and in that moment it struck her that Deborah was probably the closest friend she had, apart from Gareth perhaps. For the past six years they’d been living side by side – or as close as you get to side by side in a hamlet like Arylebourne, where each home is nestled within its own parcel of well-kept land and lawn.
Tennis Tuesdays at the club, still life on Thursdays. Usually on Fridays one of them would host the other’s family for a dinner, and then their long-standing Sunday luncheon. They both sat on the Cambridgeshire community arts and crafts council and would go on at least one family holiday together a year. Last August that had been Menorca. Thinking on it now, Opal concluded that she probably spent more time with Deborah than anyone else in the world. Before she knew it, she had doubled over and strange primal sobs were racking through her.
Her vision blurred as she watched the deep purple patent leather of Deborah’s shoes approach her. She must have buckledto her knees. And then there were arms around her again, and this time she melted into them. They swayed in time with her cries. Opal couldn’t make out what Deborah was saying, but she found the soft muttering comforting.
When the crying had subsided, she peeled herself away and dared to look Deborah right in the eye. It was an odd feeling, to be perceived so nakedly undone, and unlike just a few moments before, she didn’t feel embarrassed anymore. Maybe this was the first time ever she’d felt like that. Even when they lost Emma she hadn’t let Martin come to her, at her bedside like this. Admittedly he hadn’t tried that hard, but on his few feeble attempts, Opal had sent him away.
‘Are you going to leave him?’ Deborah’s own face was smudged.Has she also been crying?
‘I’m not sure, really. That’s pretty pathetic to admit, isn’t it?’ Opal’s voice was quiet, her gaze sinking to the floor.
‘Not at all, Pol.’ Deborah reached for Opal’s chin and lifted it back up. There was something fierce in Deborah’s face that Opal felt transmit onto her own. ‘After all you two have been through, it’s the bravest thing you could do to take your time. He has acted thoughtlessly, but don’t you dare sink to his level. You are so much better than that, Pol.’
Had Opal ever seen this side of Deborah before? Maybe. A few times when they’d had one too many G and Ts at the tennis club, this side of Deborah would creep out from behind her polished and palatable exterior. Deborah’s husband, Paul, was the county mayor and she had always taken her role as a ‘wife in office’ very seriously, too seriously if you asked Opal. But occasionally, this other side would become visible – a Deborah who was surprisingly open-minded. When Opal hadmentioned her dear friend Gareth, and how he was grieving forhis‘dear friend’ Joshua, who had died of pneumonia, Deborah’s eyes had clouded with a heartfelt and knowing sorrow.
Most people Opal interacted with would never have even picked up on the euphemisms, let alone expressed the kind of raw sympathy Deborah did. The next few times they had seen each other, Deborah had asked how Gareth was doing and there was no hint of morbid curiosity, only concern.
How then had Opal managed to convince herself that Deborah was a small-town, narrow-minded Tory wife? Maybe it was her dedication to pearl necklaces? It was an entirely unfair judgement, Opal realised now, especially considering she herself was married to a card-carrying Conservative Party member, and had even cast her own vote for Thatcher back in ’75. And it would be untrue to say that Opal herself wasn’t a fan of the odd set of pearls. But maybe that was exactly the problem she’d had with Deborah: that she reflected back to Opal all the things she secretly didn’t want to recognise in herself.
‘I didn’t even confront him this morning. I just smiled and drank my coffee like everything was normal.’
Deborah nodded, deep in thought. ‘I think you should take your time. He decided to blow things up, but that doesn’t mean you need to work to his timeline.’
Opal felt a sense of calm spread over her as she listened to Deborah speak.
‘You need to take time to think about what you want, Pol, like what you really want, because, you know, there’s no shamein turning a blind eye. God knows every other wife at the club is doing that.’
Opal scoffed in agreement.
‘Or maybe you can talk to him about some sort of … arrangement?’
Opal raised an eyebrow at this. ‘You mean, like, some sort of “open marriage” situation?’
Deborah blushed at this, and Opal was somewhat relieved. She wasn’t sure she could handle the revelation that Deborah, of all people, had been some liberal bon vivant right under her nose all this time.
‘Do you and Paul … ?’ Nevertheless, Opal felt compelled to check.
