Other People's Husbands by Judy Astley

this family gathering is all about, so I’ll let you off the hook right now, even at the risk that you’ll start hurling plates round the room. I really, truly don’t want a birthday party,’ Conrad announced as he poured cream on the lemon tart. ‘I know you’ve been revving up all through dinner to talk about it and it’s very sweet of you all, but really, let’s just not bother, shall we? I’d feel like a small child. And as my second childhood’s rapidly approaching I really don’t want to tempt fate by trying the feeling on for size.’
    Conrad leaned back in his chair and smiled across the table at her. So good-looking he was still, craggy and arresting. Women still turned in the street to look at him. Unfair that, Sara thought. Why is it that men can be so beautiful in their later years with faces eroded like ancient cliffs, yet women, however copiously they religiously smother themselves with cosmetic protection, just look worn ? Cheekbones – that was part of it. He’d got cheek-bones like Peter O’Toole’s, whereas she, with her round face that had always been thought cute, would simply end up with her skin drooping off her like a bloodhound.
    Sara’s mind had been a total blank as they’d eaten, and she’d completely forgotten about Conrad’s birthday. She’d been vaguely aware that he was twitchy and had a weird ‘elsewhere’ sparkle in his eyes, but that wasn’t particularly unusual. He’d been like that so often over the years. Sooner or later he’d come out with it, maybe an announcement that he’d been asked to paint Keira Knightley floating Ophelia-style beneath Hammersmith Bridge among urban-river flotsam. Or that he’d been offered a knighthood and was going to turn it down. She could wait.
    Through the mists of her quasi-absence during this meal, she’d heard her voice talking to Cass about Charlie, sympathizing with Pandora about the gruesome backstage conditions at the very fancy restaurant she worked in, yet feeling completely disconnected. She’d kept glancing across at the kitchen window that was now all taped-up cardboard, and she’d wondered, with mild amazement, where that had come from, the wild urge to smash something? She was the calm hub of this family, the one who made it tick. A shrink would call her the ‘enabler’ in the house. She was the keeper of the lists (birthday, Christmas, shopping, holiday plans and so on). She wasn’t supposed to shatter. Windows weren’t supposed to shatter.
    Conrad was the one whose artistic mood swings took up the breathing space here. Usually, it was all about him . The girls seemed barely out of their teens and still brittle, testing the murky depths of life. Just now, shaken by their mother’s explosion, Cass and Pandora were still being polite to each other, almost exaggeratedly sweet-natured, passing the salad down the table without being asked, collecting plates and putting them into the dishwasher as soundlessly as they could, as if frightened that a sudden noise would provoke another fit of mayhem. They needn’t worry. She was over that now. The attention was on Conrad. It was all right – she was used to that and it felt comfortable.
    â€˜Well, what do you want to do about your birthday then?’ Sara eventually asked. ‘I mean it is a special one, surely? Shall we go away somewhere? All of us? Maybe Venice? We had such a blissful time there, I remember.’
    Conrad pulled a face. ‘Absolutely not . I don’t want to travel anywhere. I don’t intend to go on a plane ever again.’
    â€˜Now you’re just being peevish. Spoiled, like a kid,’ she told him.
    â€˜Second childhood, bring it on!’ he laughed, reaching across and taking her hand. ‘We can have temper tantrums together, now you’ve brought out your violent side. Only not abroad, if that’s all