The Haunting of Harriet Page 17

  “You look stunning. You always do.”

  “Let’s go to bed. Whisk me away from all this and have your wicked way with me.” Liz tilted her head and looked sideways at Edward. She was flirting shamelessly and actually enjoying it. She felt young and, yes, stunning. Why not? That was his word and it fitted.

  “Not tonight, Liz, I’m knackered. Nice party, well done.” He yawned, another noisy unromantic yawn, and throwing his sweater round his shoulders he made his way upstairs.

  Liz stayed downstairs. She curled up in the armchair in the Fourth Room with The Pote on her lap and together they watched the dying embers until they grew cold. Miserable and dejected, she pulled herself up to go to bed. Seeing Jenny’s sampler hanging on the bird-shaped hook Liz reached out to touch it. A tidal wave of emotions washed over her, sapping her strength as it dragged back taking her feet from under her. Steadying herself she moved to the centre of the room. The small black-and-white photograph filled her thoughts. Who had hidden it there? She knew it was connected to the little boat. “I will find out what happened, one day you will keep your promise and tell me everything you know.” The Pote scuttled off, alarmed by his mistress’s raised voice, and she followed him out, feeling guilty for upsetting him. It was hardly his fault that she felt so dreadful. As she locked the door behind her it was to keep something in rather than locking anyone out. She put the griffin key back on its secret ledge then marched back across the hall and on upstairs. Throwing her clothes on the floor she climbed noisily into bed, pulled the duvet off her snoring spouse and masturbated herself to sleep.

  Desperate for a solution, Liz decided to consult Mel. Mel actually laughed in Liz’s astonished face. Then she got extremely angry. She accused her friend of taking Edward for granted: of being a spoilt brat. Didn’t she recognize a good husband when she saw one? If his behaviour was harming the family and the marriage it was certainly not intentional. Didn’t she realize by now that men do not see the obvious? They go through life in blinkers and it is women who have to steer the course if they want to change direction. If Liz perceived a problem then it was up to her to tackle it. She should either confront him head-on or try a more subtle approach to win back his attention. It was her opinion that most men had affairs because they were feeling scared or trapped. Women attacked the same problem by becoming profligate with money, whereas men reverted to other more physically basic means. She did not believe Edward was having an affair, or at least so she told Liz. He might have been tempted, or even have dipped his toe in the water. But it was nothing that could not be reversed or forgiven. She acknowledged that he could be selfish and vain, but basically he was a committed family man. A few over-generous and misplaced gifts did not constitute grounds for divorce. No, Mel sounded convinced that the problem was mostly of Liz’s doing and therefore the solution must be hers too. Anyway it was always the woman’s job to put things right. Men were so pathetically hopeless at saying sorry.

  When Mel had finished her onslaught Liz was cross and hurt. She felt betrayed. This was not the first time Mel had hurt her. She had been expecting a sympathetic, girly chat, not an unwarranted full-on attack. For some reason Mel was taking Edward’s side. As Mel left there was a tangible hostility between the two women. The hugs and kisses were absent from their parting and no future meeting was planned. Liz was desolate. Why could no one see her point of view? She had been more than generous, ignoring those blasted receipts. Letting Edward off the hook had not been easy. She spent the rest of the day banging doors shut and stomping up and down the stairs cursing. The feeling of betrayal filled her brain with vacuous thoughts, which, in turn, were creating voids for more invidious thoughts to seep in. Was Mel having an affair with Edward? Was she the other woman trying to cover her tracks by throwing Liz off the scent? Of course the thought was ludicrous. Or was it? Once sown, the seed began to germinate. There had always been an attraction between the two of them. Liz knew that Edward found Mel exotic and fascinating. What red-bloodied male wouldn’t? It would explain a lot of things.

  Liz’s head swam with absurd, hateful, imagined horrors, then her stomach began to contract. A rush of hot liquid filled her mouth. She swallowed hard and felt the acid burn her throat as the liquid rose up again. Reaching the sink, she threw up. When the spasms finished she stood upright and breathed in. Her head began to clear and she left the cold tap running as she splashed her face with handfuls of the icy water, willing each fresh shock to wash her mind clean of the obscene thoughts that had possessed her. How could she have entertained such ridiculous ideas? Maybe Mel was right and she had grown into a spoilt bitch who expected life to be handed her on a plate, and only after all the rotten bits had been consumed by someone else.

  After a long, hot bath with plenty of time to reflect, Liz had reached some conclusions. She agreed with Mel that she was a shallow creature who took without giving. Her life was full of blessings if only she could stop moaning long enough to count them. Edward was a fantastic husband; a good man who had made one silly forgivable mistake. He just needed a bit of pampering. Becoming forty was hard for him. She had to make him feel loved and special, not expect him always to be the giver. After all, one of her main talents was as a home-maker. That was one of the reasons Edward had fallen in love with her. It was nothing to be ashamed of. She should take pride in her ability to create a beautiful home. She was lucky enough to have been born with a wealth of talents and it was up to her to use them to the full. If she did not like what life was offering then it was her job to turn it around. Her just desserts could be very palatable, delicious even. But it was up to her to change. Even a spoilt, selfish bitch could change. By the time Liz went to bed she was washed clean of all bodily impurities and her soul felt cleansed and chaste. Apart from a distinct air of smugness, she was perfect.

  The next day, in her manufactured state of bliss, Liz began taking things into her own hands. She had her hair restyled and her nails French polished. Silky underwear and nightwear by the car load took her platinum card to melting point. A pair of four inch Calvin Klein’s and shiny stockings completed the new look. Having made sure that Edward would be home for the weekend and having secured a babysitting service she made a reservation for dinner and booked the Bridal Suite at the Hotel du Vin. Dressed in a new black velvet figure-hugging mini-dress with long pearl earrings and a discreet row of pearls at her neck, she surveyed herself in the mirror. She approved. Not too virginal, but not too tarty. She was ready to do battle and was determined to enjoy it. When her man arrived home, their bags were packed, ready and in the car. She was not taking no for an answer.

  The strategy worked. They were young and falling in love all over again. Edward was attentive and charming. He flattered and flirted with her and the more attractive he found her, the more attractive she became. This was what she had missed, the feeling that she was the only woman in his world. The next morning as their eyes met over their breakfast orange juice she had a desperate urge to go home. By eleven they were back. Liz felt the house welcome them, as if it knew the separation was over. The house exuded warmth and love, as it always did if you let it. This was more than returning from a short break. This was significant. It was a homecoming. Harriet watched, sighed with relief, but she had by no means finished with Edward. Not yet.

  Of course Mel had gone straight home and told Bob of her row with Liz, having already told him about the incident at the boathouse. She suggested that he should talk to Edward “man to man”, and to keep her sweet he arranged to meet Edward for a pint the next Saturday. Assuming that Bob had a problem with cash-flow or something business-related, Edward was keen to prove that in spite of the general consensus he was a good listener. He knew it would get back to Liz via Mel, it always did and a few more Brownie points would not go amiss. Bob got the beers and carried them to a table in the corner rather than their preferred stools at the bar.

  “OK, mate.” Bob’s voice did not sound like that of a man seeking advice. “What the fuck do you th
ink you’re playing at?”

  Edward’s jaw dropped. Bob rarely swore. His attitude meant business of a different kind from what Edward was expecting.

  “I’m not with you, mate,” he said.

  “This bimbo, you know who I mean - is she worth it?” He waited for an answer.

  “Are you accusing me of something? If so, spit it out, Bob.” Edward’s gaze met Bob’s full-on without flinching.

  “OK. Sophie. Does the name ring a bell? Wednesdays, Strand Palace Hotel; Mondays, Inn on the Park; cosy dinners for two in Magdalene’s… Shall I go on?”

  Edward pushed his beer away from him. He put his hand under the collar of his polo-neck sweater and eased it around his neck. He coughed a couple of times, clearing his throat. All the time his kept his eyes fixed on Bob. Neither man averted their gaze. Suddenly Edward’s face twisted into a smirk, he looked away, took a long draught of beer and returned his gaze to Bob. But he knew he had lost the battle.

  “OK, so I’ve been having some fun. Christ almighty, man, I’m forty. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a bit on the side? I’ll bet…”

  “No, I bloody haven’t,” Bob butted in, “and I’m not interested in the sordid details. This is the only time I’ll mention it - her… whatever… but I’d be failing you and Liz if I didn’t speak my mind. I’ve always considered you a decent guy. Don’t throw it all away for a quick shag!”

  Analysing emotions was unfamiliar territory for Edward. He felt abused by Bob, who he thought was behaving like an over-pious prick. However, beneath that thought lurked an unpleasant sickness in the pit of his stomach. His groin ached and he recognized the sensation from his childhood. It was the feeling of being caught out. He could see the reproving eyes of his headmaster and that snivelling, little sneak Brown; Brown’s look of outright triumph when he, Jessop, the school captain, had been exposed as a thief. All he had done was borrow a pair of crummy rugby shorts from Brown’s locker to cover for forgetting his own. It was having lied that got him the cane and lost him his captaincy. Edward swallowed hard.

  “OK, maybe it was stupid. But that’s just what it was: a quick shag. It meant nothing.” Edward’s lies were unconvincing even to himself.

  “I’m not that interested. You’re obviously going through some kind of mid-life crisis, I don’t particularly care. I do, however, care about Liz and the kids. I won’t judge you, but I will say my piece. Stop it now while it still means nothing. Recognize what you’ve got and count your blessings.” He took a swig of beer, then clinked his glass against Edward’s in a gesture of continuing friendship.

  They drank together in silence until Bob added, almost as a postscript: “Oh, Mel says if Liz gets wind of this she’ll cut your fucking balls off. OK?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Liz’s feelings of elation did not last long. She was not depressed, yet she was definitely not happy. She considered herself to be a good wife and mother, but where was her own life going? Was the dissatisfaction she was now experiencing the price to pay for taking an easy ride as a passenger through life? When she married she became Mrs Jessop; she had laughed at the fact it was also her mother-in-law’s name. What had happened to Elizabeth Prior? Where had her dreams gone? That young woman had aspired to so many things in life, but they had all been subsumed by stronger forces. She was not in control of her own life and began to think she never had been. Someone else always held the wheel or trimmed the sails. It was not so much a case of drifting aimlessly, more a feeling of being a companion traveller on someone else’s voyage.

  Her husband held the purse strings when it came to the mega decisions. Or did he? She had chosen Beckmans, and he never denied her anything, in the end. She played the major role in building their home. She had put some of her inheritance in the pot as well, but was well aware that did not count for much in the overall scheme of things. But then Edward earned phenomenal money. There was no way any career path she might have pursued would have come anywhere near that sort of financial reward. Just one of his many bonuses eclipsed her entire life’s earnings, so giving up her job when the twins were born made sense.

  But it was not a lack of monetary independence that niggled. It went deeper than that. It was more a question of identity. Was this a woman thing or just her? Sue had her teaching, Brenda had her nursing, neither of which paid particularly well but gave them a title. Mel had her “mystic Meg business”, which was actually quite lucrative. Did she envy them? Sue had spent a large part of their friendship moaning about the difficulty of juggling motherhood with a demanding job. David was hardly a male chauvinist and they had always seemed to share out the routine tasks involved in parenting. She could not remember him ever getting involved in nest-building; he was no great DIY merchant or interior designer, but then neither was Sue. Their house was always regimentally tidy, but sterile and contrived, which while irritating Liz’s sensibilities seemed to be what they wanted. As for Brenda and Donald, their lives were totally opposite to hers. They were content to be slipping into middle age; they willingly embraced the comfort of letting go. Brenda never coloured or restyled her hair, or went on a mad shopping spree or even splashed out on a new ironing board and Donald was so careful with money, he could have been the prototype for the stereotypically cautious Scot. They seemed content to lead rather boring, empty lives. But they did seem content. Mel and Bob led such different lives it was hard to compare them. Mel was always so out of control, in a controlled way. It was she that led Bob, not the other way around. She always claimed to be going with the flow but Liz watched her control the sluice gates with a frightening dexterity. Was that what she wanted for herself? Control? Yes, that was the itch that needed scratching.

  The twins were at school and Edward was off making more money. Liz picked up her coffee, smiled at the slogan on the mug and made her way across the hall towards the Fourth Room. As she passed the staircase she noted one of the pictures was askew. Putting her mug on the curved bottom stair she reached up to straighten it. She chuckled as she thought of Sue’s house, where everything stood to attention, far too terrified to step or slip out of place. Mel always called her anally retentive when she got so aerated about trivial details. In Brenda’s house no painting had a line to step out of, though she could not remember seeing any paintings at Brenda’s, apart from the one she had done for them last Christmas. She had presented them with a small watercolour of their house and had found it hard to paint such an unkempt garden without doing a little virtual pruning and mowing. She remembered feeling naughty when she had lopped off a branch or two, taking artistic licence to enhance the scene. As she adjusted her own picture back into alignment it began to dawn on her what it was that was bothering her.

  The children had grown up to the point where they no longer needed her fussing around them twenty-four seven, a fact that they were not shy in repeatedly telling her. Edward had to be allowed his own space in order to manage his demanding work and hopefully keep him on the straight and narrow. That meant time out to pursue his sports and the odd visit to the pub with his mates. The house which had demanded so much of her time pretty well looked after itself, with the help of a cleaner. The garden was in Terry’s capable hands and he now worked three days a week, which kept it looking well groomed. So what was her role? Housekeeper, housewife, lady of leisure? Surely she had not become one of those awful “ladies that lunch” or, worse, a kept woman? That was what Mel had called her. The title hurt but that was a simple case of wounded pride. It did not touch the real problem. The fact was, she was bored.

  As her hands straightened the gilded frame, the answer became obvious. It was staring her in the face. She was holding it in her hands: her painting. Liz had been painting for several years now. It suited her temperament to have periods when she could be solitary and silent, with the added bonus of an end result that solicited praise. A local frame-maker helped her select the exact colour and size of mount to compliment her work, which now adorned the stairwell, spilling over to the corridor a
bove. The walls of many of her dear friends also displayed an original Liz Jessop. Edward said they were taking over the world, but was secretly proud of his wife’s achievements.

  She would mount an exhibition of her work, nothing too grand – just enough to launch herself as a local artist. Surely she could get a few commissions and the frame-maker would, no doubt, be glad of the extra work. The objective was not to make loads of money, although that would be nice as an indicator of her work’s worth. Nor was it to become famous, although that too would be fun. No, this was to establish her identity; to reclaim herself from the role of wife and mother and establish herself as a person in her own right. And it wouldn’t hurt to show Mel that she still had it in her! Should she revert to her maiden name or would that be too obvious a statement? The realization that she had already signed her work with her married name came as a slight annoyance. She convinced herself that it really did not matter which name she used. It was not a name that decided who she was inside. There would be no more moaning or bleating about her empty life. From now on she would fill it. Mel had accused her of complacency and self-pity. Well, no more wallowing. These paintings would sell, everybody loved them and goodness knows she could well afford to mount an exhibition. She had enough contacts to fill a private viewing and drown the punters in vintage Champagne. Yes, as dear, mad Mel had so eloquently put it, she should get off her effing butt and do something.

  Harriet had been listening to Liz’s soliloquy with great excitement. It had occurred to her before now that Liz was wasting her talents merely producing the odd Christmas present or two. Her painting was becoming more and more accomplished and should be displayed where it would be appreciated by a wider public. She also craved the chance to bask in Liz’s glory. All her life she had painted, and her paintings were good. But who had seen them? Now they were all destroyed or lost. Only that pathetic sampler remained to show her artistic talents. It had been crafted with love and had taken weeks of concentration, her poor little fingers pricked to pieces by needles that refused to behave. She could not think why she had not done a painting for her father. Then she remembered. Mama disapproved of paints. They were messy things and she would not allow them in the house. So, this was her chance too. She would paint through Liz and take revenge on her hateful Mama at the same time. What could be better than that?