For both of us, making friends with Patrick again turned out to be a sort of elixir. He gave me plenty of inside advice on the markets. Tips that made so much sense I didn’t hesitate in shifting the money my parents had left me from the building-society account into the shelters he recommended. As he pointed out, even keeping cash under the floorboards was far from risk-free. After all, if you were missing out on high dividends and extra performance, you were taking an investment decision, and not a smart one.
As for Sarah-Jane, her eyes regained their sparkle, her cheeks their fresh glow. When I teased her that she hadn’t even wanted to set eyes on Patrick after all these years, she had to accept I’d been proved right. She was even happy for us to host a barbeque on our new patio, so that we could reciprocate after a dinner party at Patrick’s lovely home. Olivia didn’t cook the meal; her household management seemed to consist of hiring posh outside caterers. It didn’t matter. I sat next to another of Patrick’s clients and spent an enjoyable evening extolling the virtues of the 475 while Patrick entertained Sarah-Jane with tales of double-dealing in the murky world of financial services. People talk about dishonest car salesmen, and fair enough, but the money men are a hundred times worse if Patrick’s gleeful anecdotes about his business competitors were to be believed.
We asked Bernard and his wife along to the barbeque and it wasn’t until we’d guzzled the last hot dog that I found myself together with Olivia. As usual, she’d said little or nothing. I’d drunk a lot of strong red wine, Tesco’s finest, and probably I talked too long about how difficult it had been to lay the patio flags in just the right way. She kept looking over my shoulder towards Patrick, who was sharing a joke with Sarah-Jane and our guests. Her lack of attention was worse than irritating, it was downright rude. I found myself wanting to get under her skin, to provoke her into some sort of response. Any response.
“I ought to make a confession,” I said, wiping a smear of tomato ketchup off my cheek with a paper napkin. “Ease my conscience, you know? This has been preying on my mind for years.”
“Oh yes?” She raised a languid eyebrow.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “It’s about you and me.”
She contrived the faintest of frowns, but a frond of Virginia creeper, trailing from the pergola, seemed to cause her more concern. She flicked it out of her face and murmured, “You and me?”
I covered my mouth to conceal a hiccup, but I’m not sure she even noticed. “Well, I don’t know whether you ever realised, when we were in the sixth form together, I mean, but I had a thing about you. Quite a serious thing.”
“Oh,” she said. That was all.
I’d hoped to intrigue her. Over-optimistic, obviously. Never mind, I’d started, so I would finish. “You’re a very attractive woman, Olivia. Patrick’s a lucky fellow.”
“You think so?”
I leaned towards her, stumbling for a moment, but quickly regaining my balance. “Yes, I do think so. He thinks people are like cars. In my book, you’re a high-performance model.”
She peered into my eyes, as if seeing them for the first time. “Your wife’s prettier than I remembered. I might have known.”
That was all she said. I might have known? I stared back at her, puzzled, but before I could ask her what she meant, a strong arm wrapped itself around my shoulder and Patrick’s voice was in my ear.
“Now then, Terry. You’ll be making me jealous, monopolising my lovely wife all the time.”
I could smell the alcohol on his breath, as well as a pungent aftershave. And I could hear Sarah-Jane’s tinkling laughter as he spoke again.
“Always did have an eye for a pretty lady, didn’t you?”
The next time we got together, for a meal at an Indian restaurant a stone’s throw from the showroom, Patrick offered Sarah-Jane a job as his PA. I’m not sure how it came about. One moment they were talking idly about her plans to return to work the following week, the next Patrick was waxing lyrical about how someone with her administrative skills could play a vital role in his business. He needed a right-hand woman to rely on, he said, and who better than an old friend?
I glanced at Olivia. She was sitting very still, saying nothing, just twisting her napkin into tight little knots, as if it was a make-believe garrote. Her gaze was fixed on her husband, as usual, as if the rest of us did not exist.
I assumed that Sarah-Jane would turn him down flat. In the estate agency, she was deputy to the branch manager and stood in for him when he was on holiday. There was a decent pension scheme, too. But to my amazement, she positively basked in his admiration and said she’d love to accept. It would be a challenge, she said merrily, to keep Patrick on the straight and narrow. Before I could say a word, Patrick was summoning the waiter and demanding champagne. One look at my wife’s face convinced me it was a done deal. Even though nothing had been said about salary, let alone sick pay or holiday entitlements.
At least I need not have worried on those counts. Within a couple of days, Patrick hand-delivered her letter of appointment. The terms were generous; in fact, her basic rate was a tad higher than mine. When I pointed this out, Patrick was firm.
“I’m sure she’s worth it, Terry. And to be honest, I’m a demanding boss. I work long hours and spend a lot of time travelling. I’ll need Sarah-Jane by my side. She’ll be my right hand, so I’m prepared to pay a premium.”
I shot my wife a glance. “I don’t think...”
“It’ll be fine,” she said, patting me on the hand. “A new environment, a fresh start. I can’t wait.”
“But don’t you think... I mean, after having so long at home...?”
“I’m ready,” she said. “I’ve gathered my strength. You’re sweet to me, darling, but I don’t expect to be wrapped in cotton wool for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t worry,” Patrick said to me. “I’ll take good care of her.”
I can’t put my finger on one single incident that caused me to believe that Patrick and Sarah-Jane were having an affair. My brain didn’t suddenly crash into gear. The suspicion grew over time. Like when you begin to hear a faint knocking each time your well-loved car rounds a corner at speed. At first you don’t take any notice; after a while you can’t ignore the noise altogether, but you persuade yourself that it’s nothing, really, that if you don’t panic, sooner or later it will go away of its own accord. But it never goes away, of course, not ever.
Little things, insignificant in themselves, began to add up. She started to wear raunchy underwear again, just as she had done in those exciting days when we first got together. To begin with, I was thrilled. It was a sign she was putting the miscarriage behind her. But when I turned to her in bed at night, she continued to push me away. She was tired, she explained, the new job was taking so much out of her. It seemed fair enough, but when I suggested that it was unreasonable for Patrick to propose that she accompany him for a week-long trip to Edinburgh, to meet people from a life-insurance company he did business with, she brushed my protests aside. The long hours came with the territory, she said. Patrick had given her a wonderful opportunity. She could not, would not let him down.
Even when she was at home, she was never off the mobile, talking to him in muffled tones while I busied myself in another room. Client business was highly confidential, she reminded me when I ventured a mild complaint. I suggested several times that the four of us might go out for another meal together, but it was never convenient. Olivia wasn’t well, apparently. Although Sarah-Jane was discreet, I gathered that her old rival was seeing a psychiatrist regularly. I said that maybe Patrick would want to spend more time with his own wife, but Sarah-Jane said I didn’t understand. There was a reason why my old friend buried himself in his work. He didn’t need the money, it was all about having a safety valve. A means of escape from the pressures of being married to a neurotic cow.