SIXTEEN
A few days after the strange experience in the shop, and feeling that fate dealt her hand unnecessarily harshly, Pamela decided to fight back. Instead of turning right on the way home, she turned left, and went to see Rick’s wife, Vanessa. She rang the bell and realized she was palpitating. It had not occurred to her until that moment how very angry she was. To emphasize this, she knocked at the door as well. And when Vanessa opened it, staring in surprise, Pamela uncharacteristically pushed her way in and said, ‘I want a word with you.’
Vanessa was a large, comfortable-looking woman, rubicund of face and with wayward grey hair. She baked. Even bread. Daniel always said she looked like everybody’s mother, which made Pamela feel completely inadequate. The element of surprise in this sudden call gave Pamela the edge, which she knew she needed and she felt she deserved.
‘Can I come in?’ she said. Once she was.
Vanessa just said, ‘Oh,’ and rattled her beads nervously. They went into the cluttered, plant-festooned living room and Vanessa offered her a cup of tea. Pamela declined. Vanessa offered her something stronger. Pamela said, ‘Maybe, in a minute.’ Vanessa pointed at one of the dark brown bean bags. Pamela also declined. Vanessa sat down – with such a rushing of air and grinding of seeds, that Pamela was glad not to have taken up the offer.
Dignity was all at this juncture. You could hardly push forward a point of cultural feminism whilst lying like a stricken doll somewhere near the floor and rustling.
‘Vanessa,’ she said. ‘How long has Rick been coming to my house?’
Vanessa said, ‘Oh,’ again, rustled loudly and looked to the cascading plants as if seeking illumination.
‘I’ll tell you. He has been coming to my house since Daniel was sixteen years old. In fact, the guitar was Daniel’s sixteenth birthday present.’
Vanessa moved around uncomfortably. The bean bag complained. She nodded, perplexed. .
‘And in all that time you never minded?’
Vanessa shook her head and said, ‘Of course not,’ as if she were genuinely surprised.
‘But you do now?’
Vanessa did not move. Her puzzled, worried eyes gazed up at Pamela. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea? I’ve got fruit.’
‘You’ve got cheek, is what you’ve got,’ said Pam indignantly.
Vanessa sat up a little, not an easy feat. ‘Oh?’ she said, displaying a little more spirit. ‘How’s that?’
‘Number one, in assuming that I cannot control myself. Number two, in assuming that – if I cannot control myself – then I’ll go out of control over your husband.’
‘These things do happen,’ said Vanessa, still with spirit.
‘Don’t you lump me in with generalities,’ said Pam.
Vanessa rustled some more and composed her features. ‘Look at me compared with you,’ she said, matter-of-factedly. ‘I can’t take the risk.’
‘Risk? Vanessa, you are bloody lucky that I didn’t decide to try to fulfil your horrible fantasy just to spite you. I’ve never heard such insecure rubbish. As far as I know, Rick loves you. I haven’t seen or heard anything to disprove it.’
‘Love,’ said Vanessa, ‘where men is concerned, if I may remind you, is not sex. . .’
It would have been interesting to go off at a tangent here and discuss whether, if Love was not Sex, there was any point in worrying if a husband did a bit of rogering on the side. If Love was not Sex, then, really, it was no more than, say, sharing a meal . . . Vanessa did not look as if she would be convinced. Pamela did not feel much convinced of it either. Still – she knew what Vanessa meant. But Pam was not going to back down and start wagging her tail. Vanessa’s was an appalling calumny. It was probably representative of the view of at least half the married population – the assumption that she was husband-hungry was mortifying (and absurd, looking at most husbands), and she was not going to let it go.
‘You do not have to remind me, thank you,’ said Pam icily. ‘And by the way – can you tell me when you first suspected I was having sexual relations with my son?’
The spirit in Vanessa died away completely. She went quite still, and the bean bag was silent. She put her hand to her mouth and looked truly aghast. ‘Pardon?’ she whispered.
‘Well, obviously,’ said Pamela. ‘You thought that while Daniel was at home I was no threat to your marriage. And now you think I am unable to keep my hands off any passing man, including your husband. And since all that has happened is that Daniel has gone away, I can only assume you think Daniel and I were an item.’
‘Pam!’ said Vanessa, quite horrified. ‘That’s a really disgusting thing to say. . .’
‘Well, you make me feel disgusting,’ said Pam, her voice rising. ‘I’ve never been remotely interested in your husband except as a friend and musician. Do I make myself clear?’
Vanessa nodded. She looked quite frightened. Pamela probably did look deranged. Part of her wanted to stop the whole thing, do a re-run and go back to the bit where Vanessa told her she was desirable – she liked that bit – but she continued stern.
‘And now this,’ she said.
‘This what?’
‘You talking about the other kind of G-string. I was looking forward to those lessons.’
Light dawned on Vanessa’s face. ‘Ah,’ she said.
‘Yes, ah,’ said Pamela, advancing. ‘Well, you can just Ah-off out of it. I have never been so insulted in my life. If you think your –’ She was about to go into an abusive description of Rick’s lack of attributes when she stopped herself. Now that really would come back and slap her one. ‘Anyway, I just wanted you to know it never entered my head.’
‘No,’ said Vanessa, with spirit. ‘But it probably entered his. Oh, don’t be so green.’
It was Pamela’s turn to stare.
Vanessa struggled to her feet, leaving the groaning canvas mass behind her, and patted Pam’s arm. ‘If it’s any consolation, he’s still not speaking to me either.’
She lifted a small piece of paper from the table and handed it to Pam.
It read, ‘I have gone to Greenford Estuary fishing for the day. Please don’t worry. I will not be having it off with a haddock.’
‘When he gets back, I’ll tell him you’ve been round.’ She fingered her beads. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘why not take it all as a compliment?’ She shrugged. ‘Or maybe as an indicator of just how insecure most of us married women are. What would I do if he left me? You’re lucky – you went solo early and you’ve come through.’
Lucky? thought Pam. Doesn’t anyone realize that luck has nothing to do with it? ‘It cost me a lot, Vanessa,’ she said.
Vanessa had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I’ll tell Rick you came,’ she said, and offered Pam a drink.
‘No, thanks,’ she said, ‘I’ve got to be getting back.’ But for whom, she wondered, and for what?
It did not feel much of a victory when she left. She was reminded that if you loved someone, you assumed everyone else in the world would love them too. That was the fearful side of loving, that you might one day lose. At least she would always be Daniel’s mother, wherever he was in the world, and that was about the only constant she knew.
When she reached home, she saw Peaches Carter coming down her path, in a bright orange puffa jacket that made her look like a walking Jaffa. She looked at Pamela coldly. Pam smiled and gazed all about her, indicating the dark chill of the night. ‘It’s a long way off from that lovely barbecue.’
Peaches sniffed.
‘Your father seems very pleased,’ she said cajolingly. And wondered why she was forever having to deal so delicately with the souls of the young. When did they ever stop to deal cajolingly with hers?
‘I thought you’d look after him,’ she said peevishly.
‘We are,’ said Pamela.
She had passed on both Battersea Waterside jobs to Jennifer. Since Zoe and Lionel lived in the same development, it seemed a waste of human resources to do otherwise. Well, that was her excuse.
‘My partner and her assistant will take very good care of him.’
Peaches was disappointed. This was not the way soap romances should go. ‘He’s coming over tonight,’ she said, looking hopeful.
Pamela did not take up the invitation. ‘Say hallo for me.’ Freedom, she thought, I will have it, and that includes freedom from guilt. I have done nothing wrong.
They both moved towards their front doors.
‘Daniel will be back for Christmas,’ she said. ‘I hope you and Bud will come in then.’ And she went inside quickly.
In the kitchen the table was covered in white rose petals. They had finally dropped. Unsurprising, given the traumas the poor things went through. Peter almost hurled them at her when he finally returned them. She picked up a petal and sniffed it. Of course, they smelled of nothing, being hothouse, out of season. If she remembered rightly, they were called Iceberg, anyway. Nevertheless, she was touched. It was not often Peter did anything so thoughtful. He was usually just mildly irritated with her, as if he had never quite forgiven her for letting him down. He really seemed to be trying nowadays. As if, with Daniel going, he, too, felt the need to bridge the gap.
She hung up her coat. No light was winking on the answer-phone. Daniel never, ever called her. Twenty-two years, not including nine months in the womb, and he never rang. Margie said it was a matter for congratulation. That he was independent and free. A tribute to her fabulous mothering. Margie would say that. She was full of the joys of her newfound relationship (not affair, she insisted), and would probably have told Medea that she was doing a grand job.
She looked at the roses again. She and Peter knew each other inside out and back to front really. What a waste of experience and understanding. It might have been pleasant to have lunch with him. Ah, well, perhaps he would ask her again. Or dinner. Now the evenings were empty, dinner would be better. She thought about his limp and felt a little tug at her heart.
Amongst the petals sat a glass object, a prism, currently the stylish thing to have lying around on occasional tables in the politer kind of drawing room. She ran her fingers over its smoothness. It was the glass object that Douglas had touched in the shop. She remembered his hands as they toyed with its cut edges. Sentimental claptrap. She immediately swept the petals and the stalks into a rubbish sack and then, surprising herself, she dropped the prism in on top of them. She then replaced the sack in the cellar and went back to the dining room, where her plans for the study were still neatly laid out. She would work on that tonight. Something for herself. Whatever Herself wanted to do with it.
Later, admitting nothing, she went back down to the cellar and removed the prism from the sack and placed it near the drawings. She ran her hand over it, let its sharpness cut into her palm. Just as well Dean Close had not produced a hat trick. The way she was feeling right now, he would have been very welcome.
Later still the telephone beeped. Not Daniel but Rick. ‘Fancy a lesson?’ he said chirpily.