As we said goodbye, I joked that he’d cost Sarah-Jane and me a weekend in Rome. He smiled and asked after her.
“Lovely girl, you did well there. That cascading red hair, I remember it well. Lot of firepower under the bonnet, eh?”
His cheeky wink wasn’t in the least embarrassing. Far from it: His approval of my wife sent a shiver of pleasure down my spine. For years I’d shrunk from the reflection that he’d spurned her advances in the months leading up to the leavers’ disco. I hated thinking of her — or of myself, for that matter — as second best. She hadn’t hidden her bitterness; that was why we hadn’t kept in touch with Patrick. A reluctant sacrifice, but what choice did I have? Besides, she and I were enough for each other.
I contented myself with a smirk of satisfaction. “Let’s just say I don’t have any complaints.”
“I bet you don’t, you sly dog. How is she?”
“Fine, absolutely fine. Well...”
Honesty compelled me not to leave it there. I told him about the miscarriage and his face became grave. How sad, he said, and then he told me that Olivia didn’t want children yet, she wasn’t ready and that was fine by him. The fact he was taking me into his confidence at all was flattering; so was the way he talked about Sarah-Jane. It was as though her well-being meant more to him than I had ever realised.
“Remember me to her, now, don’t forget. Tell her Lucky Patrick was asking after her.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, glowing. This man was a success, he had money, status, a beautiful wife, but he hadn’t lost his generosity of spirit. How much I’d missed his friendship. “Let me give you a ring when the paperwork’s sorted.”
“Thanks.” He gripped my hand. “It’s been good, Terry. I heard you’d done well, but I didn’t know quite how well. We ought to keep in touch.”
“Too right.” I must have sounded as eager as a teenager, but it didn’t matter. He and I went back a long way. “Maybe we could get together again sometime.”
“The four of us? Fantastic idea, it’ll be just like old times.”
It wasn’t precisely what I had in mind. Olivia and Sarah-Jane as well? Not like old times at all, strictly speaking. But it was just a figure of speech, I knew what he meant. Time’s a great healer.
“I don’t think so,” Sarah-Jane said. “I really don’t think so.”
She was perched on a kitchen stool, wearing a grubby housecoat. I’d always liked the way she took care of herself; it’s important to have pride in your appearance. But since the miscarriage, she’d become moody and irritable and didn’t seem to care about anything. The dishwasher had broken down and she hadn’t bothered to call out the repairman, let alone tackle the mountain of unwashed crockery in the sink.
“You mooned after him at one time,” I reminded her.
“That was then,” she said. “Anyway, I finished up with you, didn’t I?”
“Don’t make it sound like a prison sentence,” I joked, wanting to lift her spirits. “Listen, it’s just one evening, all right? We’re not talking a dinner party, you don’t have to entertain them. We’ll meet in a bar, so we’re not under any obligation to ask them back here sometime. You don’t have to see him again.”
“But you’ll keep seeing him.”
“What’s wrong with that? He’s smart, he’s intelligent. Most of all, he’s a friend.”
She cast her eyes to the heavens. “There’s just no arguing with you, is there? Okay, okay, you win.” A long sigh. “Salesmen Reunited, huh?”
I reached for her, tried to undo the top button of the housecoat, but she flapped me away, as if swatting a fly.
“I told you last night, I need some personal space.”
Of course I didn’t push my luck. During the past couple of months she’d cried so easily. Once, in a temper, she’d slapped my face over something and nothing. I needed to give her time, just like it said in the problem pages of the magazines she devoured. She read a lot about life-coaching and unlocking her personal potential. The column-writers promised to give her the key to happiness, but she was still looking for the right door to open. Fair enough, I could do “patient and caring.” Besides, she’d agreed to see Patrick again. I could show my old friend exactly what he’d missed.
Sarah-Jane may have had mixed feelings about meeting up with Patrick and Olivia, but when it came to the crunch, she didn’t let me down. For the first time in an age, we were hitting the town and she summoned up the enthusiasm to put on her makeup and wear the slinky new dress I’d bought by way of encouragement. We couldn’t mourn forever, that was my philosophy. We had to move on.
The evening went even better than I’d dared to hope. Patrick was on his very best form and funny anecdotes streamed from him like spray from a fountain. In front of the girls, he congratulated me on my shrewd negotiating techniques. “I thought I had the gift of the blarney,” he said, “but Terry knows his cars inside out, you know he can torque for England.”
I hadn’t seen Sarah-Jane laugh like that in a long time. As for Olivia, she’d always been silent and mysterious and nothing had changed. She spoke in enigmatic monosyllables and paid no more attention to me than when we were both eighteen. I stole a glance at her wrist and saw that it was scarred. The marks were red and recent, not the legacy of a long-ago experiment in self-harm. Hurriedly, I averted my gaze. Her own eyes locked on Patrick all night, though it didn’t seem to make him feel uncomfortable. It was as if he expected nothing less.
Sarah-Jane did her best to make conversation. “I’m longing for the day when the doctor signs me off and I can get back to work.”
“Terry tells me you work for an estate agency,” Patrick said. “I keep trying to persuade Olivia to do a bit of secretarial work to help me out in the business since my last PA left. But it doesn’t suit.”
Olivia finished her pia colada and gave a faraway smile. “I look after the house.”
“I expect it’s a mansion,” I said cheerily.
“Seven bedrooms, five reception, a cellar, and a granny annex,” Patrick said. “Not that we’ve got a granny, obviously.” He mentioned the address; I knew the house, although I’d never seen it. A long curving drive wandered away between massive rhododendron bushes on its journey to the front door.
Olivia’s flowing dark hair was even silkier than I remembered, though there still wasn’t a spot of colour in her delicate cheeks. I couldn’t help recalling how I’d worshiped her from the back of the class when I should have been listening to the teacher’s words of wisdom on some writer whose name I forget. He used to say that all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others. It’s the only snippet from those lessons that has stuck in my mind. Of course, it’s true we don’t live in a fair and just world, no sense in moping about it, you just have to do the best that you can for yourself. Beauty is like money, it isn’t divided out to us all in neat proportions. How many women can match the elegance of Olivia Lumb? But I told myself I was more fortunate than Patrick. Looks matter, but a man wants more from his wife.
As Patrick might have said, Olivia was as svelte as the sportiest coupe in the dealership, but never mind. In the early years of our marriage, Sarah-Jane’s handling had been tenacious, her performance superb. Of course, nothing lasts forever. It’s as true of people as it is of cars. I’d hung my hopes on our starting a family, and losing the baby had devastated both of us. And then, in the course of a single evening at the bar, I saw Sarah-Jane coming back to life, like Sleeping Beauty awoken from a deep slumber. I had Patrick to thank for giving my wife back to me.