Speaking of laundry, Pam took to washing out his shirts, underclothes and pyjamas. She had bought him a special pair of bottle-green French pyjamas without buttons and with an elasticated waistband. They were waiting on his pillow, washed and ironed, each time he came. He was very appreciative. He never failed to arrive with a bottle of cider that they drank with the meal. Once or twice he mentioned that he would have taken her out to a restaurant if her cooking had not been so excellent that it would have shown up the cook. He particularly relished the cooked breakfast on a large oval plate that she supplied before he went on his way in the morning.
So Pam staunchly tolerated the teasing in the health centre, encouraged by the certainty that it was all fantasy on their part; she had been careful never to let them know that she had invited Cliff home. She was in a better frame of mind as she walked home that lunchtime. It was always a relief to get through Saturday morning.
As she turned the corner of her street, she saw a small car, a red Mini, outside her house, with someone sitting inside it. She wasn’t expecting a visitor. She strolled towards her gate, noticing that it was a woman who made no move to get out, and whom she didn’t recognise, so she passed the car and let herself indoors.
There was a letter on the floor, a greetings card by the look of it. She had quite forgotten that her birthday was on Sunday. Living alone, with no family to speak of, she tended to ignore such occasions. However, someone had evidently decided that this one should not go by unremarked. She didn’t recognise the handwriting, and the postmark was too faint to read. She opened it and smiled. A print of a single daffodil, and inside, under the printed birthday greeting, the handwritten letter C.
The reason why she hadn’t recognised Cliff’s writing was that this was the first time she had seen it. He wasn’t one for sending letters. And the postmark wouldn’t have given Pam a clue, even if she had deciphered it, because she didn’t know where he lived. He was vague or dismissive when it came to personal information, so she hadn’t pressed him. He was entitled to his privacy. She couldn’t help wondering sometimes, and her best guess was that since the failure of his marriage he had tended to neglect himself and his home and devote himself to his job. He lived for the travelling, and, Pam was encouraged to believe, his fortnightly visit to Hereford.
Presently the doorbell chimed. Pam opened the door to the woman she had seen in the car, dark-haired, about her own age or a little older, good-looking, with one of those long, elegant faces with high cheekbones that you see in foreign films. She was wearing a dark blue suit and white blouse buttoned to the neck as if she were attending an interview for a job. Mainly, Pam was made aware of the woman’s grey-green eyes that scrutinised her with an interest unusual in people who called casually at the door.
‘Hello,’ said Pam.
‘Mrs Pamela Meredith?’
‘Yes.’
The look became even more intense. ‘We haven’t met. You may not even know that I exist. I’m Tracey Gibbons.’ She paused for a reaction.
Pam smiled faintly. ‘You’re right. I haven’t heard your name before.’
Tracey Gibbons sighed and shook her head. ‘I’m not surprised. I don’t know what you’re going to think of me, coming to your house like this, but it’s reached the point when something has to be done. It’s about your husband.’
Pam frowned. ‘My husband?’ She hadn’t heard from David in six years.
‘May I come in?’
‘I suppose you’d better.’
As she showed the woman into her front room, Pam couldn’t help wondering if this was a confidence trick. The woman’s eyes blatantly surveyed the room, the furniture, the ornaments, everything.
Pam said sharply, ‘I think you’d better come to the point, Miss Gibbons.’
‘Mrs, actually. Not that it matters. I’m waiting for my divorce to come through.’ Suddenly the woman sounded nervous and defensive. ‘I’m not promiscuous. I want you to understand that, Mrs Meredith, whatever you may think of me. And I’m not deceitful, either, or I wouldn’t be here. I want to get things straight between us. I’ve driven over from Worcester this morning to talk to you.’
Pam was beginning to fathom what this was about. Mrs Gibbons was having an affair with David, and for some obscure reason she felt obliged to confess it to his ex-wife. Clearly the poor woman was in a state of nerves, so it was kindest to let her say her piece before gently showing her the door.
‘You probably wonder how I got your address,’ Mrs Gibbons went on. ‘He doesn’t know I’m here, I promise you. It’s only over the last few weeks that I began to suspect he had a wife. Certain things you notice, like his freshly ironed shirts. He left his suitcase open the last time he came, and I happened to see the birthday card he addressed to you. That’s how I got your address.’
Pam’s skin prickled. ‘Which card?’
‘The daffodil. I looked inside, I’m ashamed to admit. I had to know.’
Pam closed her eyes. The woman wasn’t talking about David at all. It was Cliff, her Cliff. Her head was spinning. She thought she was going to faint. She said, ‘I think I need some brandy.’
Mrs Gibbons nodded. ‘I’ll join you, if I may.’
When she handed over the glass, Pam said in a subdued voice, ‘You are talking about a man named Cliff?’
‘Of course.’
‘He is not my husband.’
‘What?’ Mrs Gibbons stared at her in disbelief.
‘He visits me sometimes.’
‘And you wash his shirts?’
‘Usually.’
‘The bastard!’ said Mrs Gibbons, her eyes brimming. ‘The rotten, two-timing bastard! I knew there was someone else, but I thought it was his wife he was so secretive about. I persuaded myself he was unhappily married and I came here to plead with you to let him go. I could kill him!’
‘How do you think I feel?’ Pam blurted out. ‘I didn’t even know there was anyone else in his life.’