Page 78 of Calling Frank O'Hare

‘Maybe what, that I’d leave Billy? Is that what you think this is all about?’

‘I haven’t a fucking clue what this is all about. I thought we’d agreed to stop three years ago and the next thing I know, you’re climbing into bed with me again. Maybe I’m being an idiot, but I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.’

She cast her eyes over him and, for the second time that day, he felt like he was being assessed. He couldn’t help thinking the conclusion would be just as savage as Mrs Montague’s.

‘You need to understand something about Billy and me. There are things we’ve shared that keep us together, no matter what. Whatever happens, we will never leave each other. We’re too … invested.’

Frank felt small and pathetic. He’d made the wrong assumptions about her, jumped to the wrong conclusions. She didn’t want him instead of Billy. She wanted them both. On her terms.

But Eve hadn’t finished. She had more to say: ‘The other thing you need to know is that Billy doesn’t care who I sleep with. As long as it’s not you.’

And that’s when he realised, he wasn’t her only indiscretion.

50

The magic of Paris – 1996

You’d have expected a man with the will and ego the size and strength of the Brigadier’s to have made a speedy recovery. Apparently not. If anything, it worked against him. It seemed the will to get well was outmatched by the ego that said he knew better than the health professionals responsible for his care. Ironically, having spent a lifetime barking out orders, old man Montague had difficulty in following doctor’s orders and was regularly pushing himself into a relapse. Frank knew this because Ellen told him on her weekly visits home.

Six months had passed since the Brigadier’s heart attack. At first Ellen had stayed with her mother permanently, her only contact with Frank being a phone call every few days. But when her father left hospital, she settled into a routine of coming home at the weekend, and Frank’s weekly pattern was set. In the week he saw Eve, whenever she could get away. Weekends were reserved for Ellen. It was like he had two very separate lives, requiring two very separate personalities. With Ellen, he was the caring supportive husband, albeit one that was not being wholly intimate with her. He’d made it clear their marriage was on notice and that at some point in the near future they’d be going different ways.

Being with Eve was just pure hedonism. The knowledge that she wasn’t going to leave Billy for him had released Frank from any lingering pretence that it was anything more than mutual attraction and sex. If it ended tomorrow, that would be it. He could walk away without looking back.

Frank drove up to the Montagues’ mansion and stopped outside. It was Saturday morning and he was here to pick Ellen up. He didn’t always do the drive. Sometimes Ray, the Brigadier’s man, brought her to London. Sometimes it was Gavin. This week, Ellen had asked him to come himself.

She came straight out, probably because she didn’t want to risk further setbacks to the Brigadier’s health, caused by close proximity to his Irish son-in-law. She kissed his cheek. That was as close to sex as they got these days. ‘Good news. I’ve managed to get time off for good behaviour. I’ve booked us a little holiday.’ She laughed then caught the look on his face and her expression changed. ‘It is the spring holiday, isn’t it? Don’t tell me I’ve got the dates wrong.’

‘It is. But you shouldn’t have just booked something up without asking. I might have had plans. I was thinking of going to see Adrian.’ It was a lie. Ade and Stella had taken their kids camping. The truth was that Eve had booked a couple of days off work and they were going to spend much of that time together.

‘I’m sorry, darling. I wanted it to be a surprise. Adrian won’t mind. It’s just a few days in Paris. I thought you’d enjoy the museums. It’s my way of saying thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘For putting up with me and all of this, for a start. You will come won’t you, Frank?’

Her eyes were brimming. Even though he knew it was all an act to get what she wanted, his heart still tugged. ‘Well, I suppose I’ve always wanted to see the Mona Lisa.’

She squealed with delight. ‘Sometimes, my darling, I love you so much I can’t contain myself.’

Frank laughed. Ellen beamed at him, her face questioning. It would have been a good moment to tell her he loved her too, and he did still love her, but it would have been a cruel kindness. One that filled her with false hope. Her face dropped. She got in the car and wiped away a tear that had escaped and was trickling down her cheek.

Paris was all Frank had expected it to be. If he’d been here with Eve, he’d have had the most amazing time. Sure, they’d have visited the museums but they’d have eaten bucketloads of food, got drunk, and had a great craic. But he was here with Ellen and her exacting standards. They couldn’t just look at a painting and admire it for its beauty. She had to give him a running commentary on it. They just couldn’t neck a bottle of vin de la maison. It had to be top notch and savoured. Food had to be respected. Laughs too were thin on the ground.

Ellen came in from the bedroom. She was wearing a black dress that skimmed her curves and her hair was up, revealing simple diamond studs in her ears. ‘How do I look?’

‘Stunning,’ said Frank, and he meant it. Except looks weren’t everything, were they? You couldn’t build a lifetime together on looks alone. Once upon a time there’d been some substance to their marriage. That seemed like a long time ago. Frank consoled himself with the knowledge that this would be their last holiday together. Soon, all of it would be nothing more than a sad memory.

‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She reached out and fixed his tie. It didn’t need straightening. ‘I’ve booked a table at my most favourite restaurant in Paris. I used to go there all the time when…’

‘When you left me.’

She grimaced. ‘I’m sorry Frank. I’ve not been the best of wives, have I? I don’t blame you for wanting a divorce.’ It was the first time either of them had actually said the word. It felt like progress.

‘I’m sorry too. I haven’t always been the husband you want.’

Ellen laughed. ‘Frank, my love, you have always been the husband I want. You know what, forget the restaurant. Let’s do something else.’

Some time later, they were strolling around Paris, their finery cast off and replaced by jeans and T-shirts. They’d eaten in a bistro that Ellen would normally bypass and were following it up with an impromptu bar crawl. It was like the old days, but they were different people now. All the same, they were enjoying themselves. It was a good way to bow out of a failing marriage.

---