Page 1 of The Affair
1
Connie McCabe was an honest woman. At least, she’d always considered herself as such. It wasn’t something she prided herself on: it was just her default position, as another person’s might be to slide away from the truth when it didn’t suit them. But she was never brutal – if asked her opinion of a friend’s new dress, she wouldn’t say, ‘That yellow makes you look as if your liver’s packed up,’ when the friend was stuck in the outfit for the foreseeable. So the events of that summer shocked Connie to the core and made her question everything she thought she knew about herself.
On the 2 p.m. xxx, Connie texted her husband, Devan. They lived in a large village – almost a small town, or ‘tillage’, as the locals referred to it – south of the Mendips, on the Somerset Levels, and her train journey, starting from Paddington, would take close to three hours.
See you at the station x, Devan replied.
She sat back in the crowded carriage, the heating turned up way too high for the mild April day, and closed her eyes, letting out a luxurious sigh of relief. For the past ten days she’d been on call, responsible for thirty-nine people’s welfare – one passenger had cried off sick at the last minute – on a rail journey throughthe tulip fields of Holland. According to company guidelines, it was frowned upon to read or listen to anything – heaven forbid snooze – while accompanying her passengers across Europe. She should stay alert, poised to deal with any concerns her flock might have. So, despite loving every minute of her job as a tour manager, just sitting here, alone, with no responsibility to anyone but herself, was bliss.
Connie felt herself begin to unwind as the train travelled west, past Reading and Swindon, the countryside awash with bright blossoms and deliciously pale spring green. It had been a good tour. Only one really irritating couple who’d picked holes in everything, from the pillows to the narrow steam-train seats and rain on the day they’d toured Amsterdam. She’d been waiting for them to kick off about the colours of the spectacular tulip displays. There was always one.
Now would be the time, she thought sadly,when I’d ring Mum and fill her in about my trip.Her mother, Sheila, had died in January, in her sleep, at eighty-six, after barely a day’s illness in her life. She’d been quietly independent to the last, living alone in her small South London flat with no fuss, miles from both of her daughters. But Connie would ring most days and they would chat away. Sheila was wise, someone who really listened. But she also loved a good rant, a good gossip, a good laugh.I miss you so much, Mum, Connie whispered silently, her eyes filling with tears, which she quickly blinked away in the crowded carriage.And I really need your advice. I’m worried. I don’t know what to do about Devan.
Her train arrived fifteen minutes late. But there was no sign of her husband or the red Honda in the semicircle of cars waiting on the station forecourt. She got out her mobile.
‘Hi,’ her husband said, sounding disoriented. ‘Where are you?’
‘At the station.’ She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice, but she was dying to get home and take off her ‘cruise wear’, as she called the outfits deemed suitable for her job, and have a long, hot soak in her own bath. She knew Devan had probably fallen asleep in front of some rugby match or other. It was all he seemed to do, these days, since his retirement last summer as the village GP – a post he’d held for the past thirty years.
There was a moment’s silence and she heard scuffling in the background. ‘God! Sorry – didn’t realize the time. On my way,’ Devan said, and clicked off.
‘Good trip?’ her husband asked, smiling briefly at her as she climbed into the car, but not removing his hand from the gear stick or leaning over to kiss her. His handsome face looked crumpled, his grey jumper had a large stain just below the crew neck and his chin sported a day’s growth, the stubble sprouting silvery, although it was only the very edges of his dark hair that showed signs of grey. But Connie wasn’t in the mood to comment or criticize.
‘Yes, great. Weather was a bit rubbish the day we were in Amsterdam, but otherwise it went pretty smoothly, apart from the usual PPs.’ Which stood for PerfectPassengers and was their ironic acronym for any awkward customers on her tours. ‘The wife kicked off because there wasn’t a “pillow menu” at any of the hotels.’
Devan glanced at her, his thoughtful blue eyes, deep set beneath heavy brows – people likened him to the footballer George Best in his prime – coming suddenly to life. He had such a charming smile, which she’d instantly fallen in love with, that long-ago night in the festival medical tent. ‘Is that even a thing?’
Connie nodded. ‘These days, if you’re in four- or five-star luxury, yes.’
He gave a disbelieving snort. ‘Does it include starters and a main?’
‘Well, I’ve seen buckwheat pillows listed – filled with buckwheat hulls, apparently – and one with herbs and essential oils. So you’re not far off the mark.’
‘Preposterous.’ Devan chuckled.
They drove in silence for a while. ‘How have you been?’ Connie asked.
‘Oh, you know …’ Devan’s words were lost in the roar and rattle of a passing tractor.
‘Your back? Are the exercises helping at all?’
Her husband’s mouth clamped in a thin line of warning. He’d been plagued, on and off, by a degenerating disc in his lower back for the past couple of years, for which he’d been given a slew of exercises by the physio. But he never did them, as far as Connie could tell. ‘God, Connie, don’t start.’
His words were spoken softly, but she was taken aback by the veiled antagonism. She sympathized withsomeone in constant pain, obviously, but it was frustrating, watching him do nothing to alleviate the problem – Devan, a doctor who’d endlessly ranted about patients not being prepared to help themselves.
It was on the tip of her tongue to retort, but she took a deep breath instead. ‘Hope it stays fine for the Hutchisons tomorrow,’ she said, changing the subject as the atmosphere in the car grew thick with the unsaid. ‘I got Carole a kitsch pair of clogs in Amsterdam and they painted her name on the side.’ Tim and Carole Hutchison owned an impressive Victorian villa at the top of the village, with spectacular views over the Somerset Levels. They always threw a spring party for Carole’s birthday, and although Connie wouldn’t call them close friends – in fact she thought Tim, a retired fund-manager, pompous in the extreme – an invitation to the yearly bash was much coveted and a matter of pride in the village.
Devan didn’t reply at once. ‘I suppose we have to go,’ he said eventually, as they pulled onto the paved parking space at the side of their house and he turned off the engine. They sat in silence for a moment, a weak evening sun breaking through the clouds and bathing their still faces in light pouring through the windscreen.
Connie frowned as she turned to him. ‘You love their parties. You always say it’s the best champagne in the county.’
He gave a weary nod. ‘Yeah, well …’
Connie was about to remonstrate, but she heard Riley, their beloved Welsh terrier, barking excitedly, and jumped out of the car. Biting her lip with disappointment at herhusband, she pushed open the front door, bending to enjoy his enthusiastic welcome, to bury her fingers in his soft black and caramel fur and watch the perfect arc of his tail wagging furiously at seeing her.
Every time she went away these days – even if only for a week – she hoped, in her absence, things might shift for Devan. Hoped he might begin to shake off the pall of lethargy that broke her heart. Hoped to see the light in his eyes again. Her trips were like a bubble. She would escape into another world, swept up in round-the-clock responsibility for the tour and its passengers, the extraordinary scenery, the diverse smells, the delicious local food – even the sun’s rays seeming to fall differently abroad. Her problems with Devan faded into the background for those few short days. But coming home, however much she looked forward to it, forced her to face up to reality again.
The house was as messy as Connie had anticipated – sofa cushions squashed to Devan’s shape, newspapers strewn, a dirty wine glass on the coffee table, some dried-up olive stones in a ramekin. She took a deep breath as she entered the cosy farmhouse kitchen at the back of the house, where they’d spent a lot of family time when Caitlin – named after one of Devan’s Irish grandmothers – was growing up. It wasn’t bad, she conceded, casting an eye over the worktops and range, the oak refectory table. But Devan had never got to grips with surface wiping: the cooker was spattered from the endless fry-ups in which he’d no doubt been indulging,the worktop strewn with toast crumbs and greasy smears, tea and coffee stains ringing the area around the kettle, a pile of used teabags mouldering on a saucer.
