she had always done, even before his spectacularly disastrous attempt to follow her into journalism. All of it stoked his anger further so that although he had little hope that he would get a straight answer, he decided to ask her about Sir Teddy, if only to see some of that haughtiness come crashing down.
‘You worked on the Arts pages at the Echo , didn’t you?’ he’d said conversationally. She nodded.
‘Must have been fascinating, being there right at the heart of London in the eighties.’
Another nod.
‘Hard to remember all the faces and the names, though?’
‘A little.’ There had been uncertainty in her voice.
‘Remember anyone called Teddy?’
It was what he called a ‘softener’ question, preparation for hitting her with the name ‘Montgomery’ later, and he’d expected some kind of guarded look in response. Instead she had turned her beautiful, ruined face towards him and panic had slewed across it, widening her eyes and making her mouth dip.
‘Who told you about Teddy?’ she had said, her voice low and intense. ‘Who told you?’
Mack had felt the shock roar through him. It was true … jeez, if he’d opened that brown envelope …
When he’d managed to reply that O’Dowd had told him, her hand had gripped his. ‘The swine, why tell you? It was madness, a stupid passion. Nobody knew. Nobody.’ With horror he had seen tears in her eyes, and it was such an un-Phyllida type of thing to happen that he could still remember, sitting on this train miles away from her, how breathless it had left him.
‘What exactly did O’Dowd say?’ she had asked almost frantically, her hand now clutching at his sleeve and managing to catch some of his flesh.
‘That you’d had an affair.’
‘That’s all?’
He’d wanted to shout ‘That’s all? That’s bloody well enough!’ but instead had got down on his knees and tried to soothe her, enclosing both of her hands in his.
When she’d seemed calmer, he had suggested she went for a lie-down and, as he’d helped her from the chair, asked her to take it easy while he was away, pointing out that Tess couldn’t pop in all the time like he could, andif she did drink in the flat on her own and something happened …
‘There you go again,’ she had replied, but without her usual exasperation. ‘I don’t drink on my own any more. Just in the pub, in company. It’s not a sin.’
He hadn’t argued, and just before she had stepped into the kitchen, she’d done a clumsy little turn and given a smile. It had missed him and landed somewhere among the flowerpots, but it had buoyed him up, made him hope she might be trying to pull herself around.
Minutes later, when Tess returned with a pink hot-water bottle in one hand, that buoyant feeling had been punctured.
‘Take a sip,’ she had said tersely.
In many other families, being asked to taste the contents of a hot-water bottle might have seemed bizarre, but Mack had upended it and felt the vodka with a hint of rubber burn its way down his throat.
Fooled again … but not about Sir Teddy Montgomery, of that he was sure. That naked anguish had been Phyllida telling the truth.
Tess had taken the hot-water bottle from him and, shaking it as if she wanted to break its neck, said, ‘So, that’s what she’s decanting the drink into, but where are the bottles?’
Mack had thought back to Phyllida’s departing smile and walked over to the nearest plant pot. Digging his hand down into the cold compost, it had connected with something hard and smooth and he’d pulled out a fullbottle of vodka. Presumably there would be others – some empty – in the rest of the pots.
‘Well done, Phyllida, you’re growing the stuff now,’ he’d said, but he’d been thinking: Is this how devious you were about Sir Teddy Montgomery? Fooling everyone, leading them in a dance?
The train gave a jolt, and above him in the luggage rack, a dark red rucksack shifted. It lay on a fleece and he gave both items a
‘You worked on the Arts pages at the Echo , didn’t you?’ he’d said conversationally. She nodded.
‘Must have been fascinating, being there right at the heart of London in the eighties.’
Another nod.
‘Hard to remember all the faces and the names, though?’
‘A little.’ There had been uncertainty in her voice.
‘Remember anyone called Teddy?’
It was what he called a ‘softener’ question, preparation for hitting her with the name ‘Montgomery’ later, and he’d expected some kind of guarded look in response. Instead she had turned her beautiful, ruined face towards him and panic had slewed across it, widening her eyes and making her mouth dip.
‘Who told you about Teddy?’ she had said, her voice low and intense. ‘Who told you?’
Mack had felt the shock roar through him. It was true … jeez, if he’d opened that brown envelope …
When he’d managed to reply that O’Dowd had told him, her hand had gripped his. ‘The swine, why tell you? It was madness, a stupid passion. Nobody knew. Nobody.’ With horror he had seen tears in her eyes, and it was such an un-Phyllida type of thing to happen that he could still remember, sitting on this train miles away from her, how breathless it had left him.
‘What exactly did O’Dowd say?’ she had asked almost frantically, her hand now clutching at his sleeve and managing to catch some of his flesh.
‘That you’d had an affair.’
‘That’s all?’
He’d wanted to shout ‘That’s all? That’s bloody well enough!’ but instead had got down on his knees and tried to soothe her, enclosing both of her hands in his.
When she’d seemed calmer, he had suggested she went for a lie-down and, as he’d helped her from the chair, asked her to take it easy while he was away, pointing out that Tess couldn’t pop in all the time like he could, andif she did drink in the flat on her own and something happened …
‘There you go again,’ she had replied, but without her usual exasperation. ‘I don’t drink on my own any more. Just in the pub, in company. It’s not a sin.’
He hadn’t argued, and just before she had stepped into the kitchen, she’d done a clumsy little turn and given a smile. It had missed him and landed somewhere among the flowerpots, but it had buoyed him up, made him hope she might be trying to pull herself around.
Minutes later, when Tess returned with a pink hot-water bottle in one hand, that buoyant feeling had been punctured.
‘Take a sip,’ she had said tersely.
In many other families, being asked to taste the contents of a hot-water bottle might have seemed bizarre, but Mack had upended it and felt the vodka with a hint of rubber burn its way down his throat.
Fooled again … but not about Sir Teddy Montgomery, of that he was sure. That naked anguish had been Phyllida telling the truth.
Tess had taken the hot-water bottle from him and, shaking it as if she wanted to break its neck, said, ‘So, that’s what she’s decanting the drink into, but where are the bottles?’
Mack had thought back to Phyllida’s departing smile and walked over to the nearest plant pot. Digging his hand down into the cold compost, it had connected with something hard and smooth and he’d pulled out a fullbottle of vodka. Presumably there would be others – some empty – in the rest of the pots.
‘Well done, Phyllida, you’re growing the stuff now,’ he’d said, but he’d been thinking: Is this how devious you were about Sir Teddy Montgomery? Fooling everyone, leading them in a dance?
The train gave a jolt, and above him in the luggage rack, a dark red rucksack shifted. It lay on a fleece and he gave both items a
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