There was not the slightest danger of reality softening the outline of any of these images, because Carole Seddon had never been to Essex.
But as her immaculate Renault approached the outskirts of Harlow, she saw nothing to change her ingrained perception. The fact that she had driven through the Dartford Tunnel to reach her destination served only to emphasize her feeling of being in an alien land.
Maybe when the ‘new town’ had first been created – the construction started in 1947 – Harlow had had some glamour. Maybe its tightly contained centre, its cement colonnades of shops, had then been state of the art, and the envy of more traditional towns. But, in common with many other examples of post-war building, Harlow had not aged well. Though some developments of that period survived to find a renaissance as ‘retro-chic’, the hopes of that ever happening to Harlow were so small as to be beneath statistical significance.
Perhaps the hotel Carole had chosen to stay in afterthe engagement party reflected her determination not to find any glamour in Essex. Outside the immediate environs of Harlow itself, there was more comfortable accommodation on offer, and she couldn’t pretend to be unaware of the fact, because Stephen and Gaby had booked into a very luxurious hotel converted from an Elizabethan mansion. But Carole had opted for a room in the identikit glassy rectangle of an international chain.
She felt a grim satisfaction as she drove into the car park, from which cement walkways led to the cement monolith itself. The hotel was one you could imagine someone checking into when contemplating suicide; if they hadn’t arrived with suicidal thoughts, they would certainly have them by the time they left.
She looked forward to returning to Fethering as soon as possible the next morning. Carole Seddon didn’t like being off home base. There was no practical difficulty about being away – Jude was going to feed and walk Gulliver – but Carole didn’t like sleeping anywhere other than her own bed at High Tor.
She had no idea where her ex-husband was staying. When Carole had last spoken to Stephen, his father had not yet booked anywhere. Characteristically, David had been late in committing himself to a decision. Equally characteristically, he hadn’t phoned her back, as promised. Carole had contemplated ringing him again before their inevitable meeting at the engagement party, but she had put it off, comforting herself with the argument that it really was his turn to ring her.
Yet somehow she wasn’t surprised, as she walked through the anonymous automatic doors of the hotel, to see a man standing at the anonymous reception, giving his details to the anonymous blue-suited girl behind the counter.
“Yes, the name is…erm…Seddon. David Seddon. I have a single room booked for just the one night.”
“Of course, Mr Seddon,” said the receptionist in perfect received pronunciation, confounding at least one of Carole’s preconceptions.
He hadn’t seen her yet. Carole cleared her throat as she took up a position behind him. He didn’t react. “Excuse me…” she began.
“Won’t be a moment, madam,” said the beautifully spoken girl. “Just dealing with this gentleman.”
Still David didn’t turn. He would always studiedly avoid confrontation or potential unpleasantness.
“Yes, but this gentleman was actually my husband,” Carole found herself saying.
He did turn at that. They stood awkwardly facing each other. Compounding the discomfort, the receptionist asked innocently, “Oh, so will you be wanting a double room then?”
“No,” said David.
“No,” said Carole, with equal promptness, and then added tartly, “I said ‘was’. He’s my ex-husband.”
“Ah.” The girl’s eyes moved discreetly down to her computer keyboard.
Carole tried to think how many years had passed since she and David had seen each other. At least five, probably longer. What she was now confronted with was a middle-aged man slightly below her own height, the dominant feature of whose face was a pair of black heavy-rimmed glasses. His hair, the crown of which had been brown when they last met, was now uniformly white, and he’d had it cut short and spiky, which gave a slightly raffish air, totally at odds with his nondescript beige suit. David Seddon looked what he was, a minor civil servant in retirement.
But Carole had enough detachment to know that, as he looked at her, the same thought was probably crossing his mind. She felt she looked drab and ordinary, an increasingly neurotic middle-aged woman; a minor civil servant in retirement.
Neither of them could think what to say, but the receptionist prevented total silence. “There’s your key, Mr Seddon. Do you want any help with your bags?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you. Just got this little wheelie one.”
“Splendid. Well, I hope you enjoy your stay, Mr Seddon. And now…Mrs Seddon, is it?”
“Yes. Carole Seddon.”
David hovered. To go straight to his room without saying anything would have been downright rude, but he couldn’t think of anything appropriate to the circumstances.
“Maybe,” Carole suggested, to ease the awkwardness, “we could meet for a cup of tea – or a drink – you know, once we’ve got settled into our rooms?”
“Yes…erm…good idea. I’m sure they must have a bar here somewhere.”
“The Avalon Bar, just to the left of the lifts,” the receptionist supplied helpfully.
“Thank you so much. Well, look, Carole, I’ll see you in…erm…half an hour, say?”
“That sounds fine, David.”
“And if you need to…erm…contact me – ” he fingered his keycard nervously “ – I’m in room number six one three.”
“Would it help if I were to see if I can put you in a room near Mr Seddon, Mrs Seddon?”
“No, it wouldn’t, thank you very much,” replied Carole, with perhaps a little too much vigour. After all, the girl had only been trying to help.
And yet, after David had gone up in the lift, while the girl was taking down her details, Carole found herself reacting strangely to his words. There had been a time in their marriage when arriving at a new hotel had had a definite aphrodisiac effect on them. The thought of anything like that now was of course ridiculous, and yet Carole found the memory both disturbing and faintly titillating.
The Avalon Bar was a good place for the person contemplating suicide to have that final, nerve-bracing drink. There was nothing in there to make him change his mind. Its decor, pastel and anodyne, was reminiscent of an inadequately endowed private hospital. The only atmosphere was provided by ambient music, in which standards by the Beatles, Abba and Stevie Wonder were filleted and garnished with swooping strings.
It was about half past five when Carole arrived in the bar. David was not yet there – no surprise. He had always been a strange mixture of meticulous planner and erratic timekeeper. Carole felt a seething within her, familiar from the many other bars and restaurants in which she had sat waiting for her husband.
At that time there wasn’t much business in the Avalon Bar. Three over-large and over-loud businessmen had just emerged from a day’s conference and were downing lagers. A young mother’s sour face tried to blackmail her husband into hurrying down his pint so that she could get their grizzling toddler to bed. A man who shouldn’t have been with a younger woman tried to look as if they had all the time in the world to finish their drinks before rushing off to the room he’d booked.