Simon and I had a good patch for a month or so after the Frederik episode; lots of sex, very few rows. I made an effort and cooked. He made an effort and booked restaurant tables. We went out on our own together and talked to each other and then we flirted with one another when we were in company. We had the children's names conversation, the one which always gave us a sense of permanence. It didn't make me feel uneasy. Every time I looked at him I was aware of loving him deeply. It was fun.
Then a combination of things happened which set me back. Firstly I made some playful comment about Simon's waistline. He took offence and joined a squash club. He got fanatical about it, which didn't worry me too much as I knew it was a phase which would last a month at the most, but which left me alone in the evenings. I decided to clear the backlog of things I had been meaning to do for ages. I met up with old friends; I cleaned the fridge; I decided to put the photographs in the album. This was a major exercise, since the house was full of photos which had been lying around since before our wedding. There were four years to sort out. I laid them all over the floor in months and then edited them down and planned the layout. Of course it sounds much more straightforward than it is. An exercise like this involves hours of reminiscences and recriminations - you pore over your photographs, analysing yourself, wondering about other people, smiling and cringing by turn. It's simply something that can't be done quickly - I didn't manage to get up to date. It's like clearing out desk drawers and coming across old letters. I did that too.
I found a shoebox full of love-letters. When Simon and I got married we both swore we'd got rid of our respective hordes, but I cheated and I think he did too. I spent a whole afternoon when my electronic diary said I was 'working at home' sitting on the floor by my bed reading old letters. From Marc, my first love. Well, my first grown-up love.
The letters were full of a desperation which I had never experienced with Simon - perhaps the difference between first love at twenty-one and wearier, but sounder, love in one's thirties. My attachment to Marc was palpable, electric; it shuddered through me all the time I was with him. It isn't the same with Simon. We don't love each other as a castaway loves the fragment of wood he clings to. There is no insecurity. We know what our future holds. It holds each other. We will watch subtle changes in each other; he will notice over time that the skin on the backs of my hands is growing papery; it will suddenly occur to me that he has developed an interest in interior design that he didn't have when he met me. I have changed because of him. We seem to have grown into a couple, a being with two heads and four legs but a co-ordinated method of movement. I struggle against it. I am surprised by photos of us the way we used to be, I don't remember us being like that. I'm not sure how I feel about the changes. We can plan for the future without feeling that it is daring, a risk, willing fate to turn against us and throw a monumental spanner in the works. I would never admit it out loud but I miss the danger.
When Simon came home I snapped at him for no real reason and compared him unfavourably to Marc, which was unfair since there was about fifteen years between the Simon of now and the Marc of then. Of course a comparison of the you of now with the you of then would provide a useful control, but that kind of experiment is not usually conducted in as scientific a fashion as it should be.
The next day was Saturday and I was meeting my friend, Julia, in the big out-of-town shopping centre to get essential bits and pieces. It was a great glass domed structure, attractive in an impersonal, functional, light-reflecting, temple-to-shopping way.
When our feet were sore and our throats dry we made our way to the coffee shop, a teeny bit more expensive and more splendid than Starbucks. In the middle of the room was a circular bar, its menu whispering of the usual lattes and mochas, espressos, americanos and cappucinos, all promised with shots of hazelnut or Irish cream. Machines hissed as they pressed water through thick coffee grounds; milk protested as it struggled through pipes to emerge bubbling and blustering in fine white china. Around three quarters of the bar were clusters of aluminium chairs set around blond beech tables on a blond beech floor. Two creamy leather sofas sat against the walls, customers lounging in them. A man and a woman clad in black leather jackets, black trousers and roll necks reclined in one of them, talking unsmilingly, glancing around occasionally to check that we were all looking at them. The tables were inhabited by motley assortments of humanity; couples discussing sofas, parents harassed by impatient children, elderly people complaining that you couldn't get just a coffee these days. To the left of us was a group of tables with computer terminals on top of them. All but one were occupied, mainly by teenagers in pairs, giggling and cupping their arms around the screens protectively. A man with long hair and sandals played computer games and an elderly couple were reading about Viagra. One young girl wrote a long e-mail, tapping away without looking at the screen. I couldn't help but glance over and caught sight of a few words: "and then I told her to fuck off because she was going out with Nick and why should she be even talking to Dave and she said 'You slag' but she's the slag.......” Julia caught me looking and dug me in the ribs or I would have kept on reading.
"I need to check up on something." I said, "It won’t take long. I don’t get to surf the net at work. And my laptop's knackered."
I sat down at the spare terminal and tucked my plastic bags under the table. A spotty youth glared at me and then swore under his breath as Julia nudged him with her huge handbag and scraped a chair up next to me.
"Is there a problem?" I asked, looking him squarely in the eye.
His eyebrows drew into a single black line and he slouched back in his seat and pulled insolently at the crotch of his trousers, which were about a foot from where his underpants should be. I quite enjoyed the opportunity of showing off to Julia, who’s unspeakably Luddite and revels in it. She'd been out of the business for several years. The pony-tailed boffin came over.
"D'you want any help' he asked, eying the numerous bags of shopping and visibly dismissing us as big haired housewives, "Been here before?"
"No, thanks," I said, my fingers flying over the keyboard, "We'll be ok."
"Wyile you're there, said Jules, "you couldn't check some jewellery sites, could you? I'd rather get something unusual for my niece than buy them at Accessorize again. But if there's nothing, we'll have to go there."
As we looked at the list of odd jewellers, my eyes were drawn to one particular entry: "Jez's Jazzy Jewellery". I scrolled down and clicked the mouse on it. My sister's face looked out at me, her head tipped forward to enlarge her eyes, all kohl and red hair.
"My God," breathed Jules, "It's your mad sister. What's she doing there? I'd have thought she'd be against all that in principle."
I shrugged and clicked again and saw some photos of those hen-feather earrings, purple and green and fuchsia and orange, each dangling from my sister's distinctive lobe, a wisp of hair curling away from the ear. There were also some interestingly twisted wire earrings, also adorned with those primitive clay beads. They looked good. Someone had been to a great deal of trouble creating the display.
I was almost too surprised to speak.
"Well, good for her," said Jules, sitting back and folding her arms. "She's absolutely astonished me. I thought she was a complete airhead and she's proved me wrong. Serves me right for judging a book by its cover. Don't ever let me tell anyone off again for dismissing me as a housewife."
"Do you want to order some?" I asked.
"God, no!" Jules said, too quickly, "I don't like them that much. I'd worry where the feathers had been."
"Well I can help her there - they're from hens, and I wouldn't expect Jez to have washed them too conscientiously…"
"Still, fair dos, eh? I hope lots of people do buy them. And don't catch anything from them. It might be a good idea to have a word with her on the hygiene front, though, before she dispatches too many pairs."
We had a laugh and moved on, browsing through some other quirky sites.
"So what else can we do?" asked Jules, her stomach muscles sore from laughing.
"Track down old friends?" I offered.
"Excellent idea!"
A few keystrokes and I was ready.
"Ok then," I said lightly, "who do you want to find? What about in the US?"
Julia leaned forward eagerly.
"Oh, what fun! Let me see, write down Kristen Cembrowicz." She spelled it out.
"Do you know what state she's in?"
"Pennsylvania."
The screen said that there were two hits. Julia whooped and bounced on her chair. There were several options; Julia wanted to send a card.
"There she is! Let me! Let me!"
I pushed over the keyboard and she typed a short message, giving her home phone number and exhorting Kristen to call.
"She was brilliant, Kristen, I met her on holiday in Greece. She was 'doing Europe'. I hope she calls. Go on now. It's your turn - who are you going to look up?"
I looked upwards thoughtfully for a respectable length of time and then brightened my expression as if an idea had just occurred to me.
"I know."
I keyed in the name MARC LARSEN. State NY.
There were fourteen hits. I narrowed my search.
MARC P LARSEN.
One hit. My hands were shaking. I could feel I was blushing.
"Ok, sweetie, what's the story here? Holiday romance?" Julia was smiling broadly at me, elbowing me in the side.
"Sort of. First love. We were lost in France together when I was twenty. Big stuff at the time." I tried to sound casual. I didn't feel it.
There was an option to 'Send flowers'. I picked it.
"Oh well, in for a penny..." I said, and Julia's mouth made an 'o' at me.
What on earth do you say? My fingers hung in the air as I gazed at the prompt, waiting for inspiration.
"Hi!" I wrote, and paused.
Julia looked at me.
“He'll need more of a clue than that, sweetie."
"Here's a blast from the past. I happened upon you here. What would I do but drop you a line?! Hope you're well and enjoy the flowers. Toni.”
As I wrapped up and filled in all the relevant details Julia looked at me approvingly. It is impossible to enter in your card details as if you’re being spontaneous. It was clear as crystal, even to Julia, that there was more to this than met the eye.
"What would Simon say, eh? Are you going to tell him?"
"I might. It depends. Now what shall we do now?"
“Don’t change the subject. Who is this man? Eh? Eh?”
“I just told you. He’s an old friend. Really old.”
“Married?”
That was the flip side of making contact in such a reckless way. I hadn’t actually thought of that, and those flowers would be going to his home. Excellent.
“Probably. Most of us are, aren’t we?”
“And how would you feel if Simon got flowers from an old flame out of the blue?”
“Much the same as when he gets pawed by them at weddings – resigned. I know it means nothing. Unless she’s very wet, so will she.”
I didn’t feel quite as insouciant as I sounded.
“Now come on. Your babes will need their Mum back soon.”
I didn't tell Simon when I got home. I was remorseful almost immediately though, so I'd picked up a couple of steaks at the food store and I made a sauce "au poivre" to go over it. We had supper in the dining room for once, over a candle, and we talked. I'd made a pavlova and I insisted we take it to bed with our glasses of brandy. I wanted to smear cream over him and lick it off but he didn't want to sleep in sticky sheets, so I made do with feeding him and being fed and then straddled him when he was trying to watch Match of the Day.
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