Page 62 of The Affair
Connie laughed. ‘Me neither.’ She searched Tessa’s face, noticing the strain around her eyes, the look of vague distraction – as if she were not really present – that she’d seen in other recently bereaved friends.
Tessa was about her own height, with dark hair – now streaked becomingly with grey – in an untidy bob tucked behind her ears, the fringe brushing her large blue-grey eyes. Where Connie had small breasts, Tessa’s were full, her figure straight-backed and athletic – she was a lifelong jogger. But it was her open smile and extrovert charm that drew the eye. You always knew when Tessa was in the room.
By contrast, Martin, a financial journalist of some note, had been quiet, wary and thin. He had long since stopped bothering to be sociable, Tessa carrying the day for them both. She and Connie had been best friends at school, managing to keep up their close friendship for a while, until geography, husbands and children took their inevitable toll. But when they did get together, even after long periods with little contact, nothing seemed to have changed between them.
Overcome and feeling close to tears again, Connie said quickly, ‘What have you done to your toe?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just caught it on the edge of the bed,stumbling around in the night.’ She gave a half-smile. ‘I’ve been at such sixes and sevens since Martin died. Bashed up the car – nothing major, but still – locked myself out at midnight, forgot one of my sessions at the bank …’ Tessa was a performance coach, employed by one of the big banks, having trained as an actress and worked in television for a while. ‘I suppose it’s inevitable.’
Connie felt so selfish. Here she was, feeling sorry for herself, when Tessa was dealing with a life-changing bereavement. She mentally shook herself and gave her friend another hug.
‘Right, wine, I think.’ Tessa grinned. ‘And I got one of these delicious caramelized onion tarts for lunch. That deli will be the ruin of me.’
They poured the wine, cut slices of tart, spooned creamy celeriac remoulade onto plates, then settled down to talk, initially relating the bare bones of their last few months. In Tessa’s case, Martin dropping dead one quiet Sunday afternoon in spring from a so-called ‘widow-maker’ heart attack – a huge blockage in the left coronary artery. Connie had heard versions of the story from people at the funeral, but she’d not been able to talk properly to Tessa that day and hear the real account.
‘No warning, Con. We were sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, having our usual rant about the ludicrous bollocks we were reading in the Sundays, when he stood up and sort of gasped, fell back onto the sofa …’ Connie saw the shock still patent in Tessa’seyes. ‘I tried CPR – I’ve done the bloody classes for my job – but it didn’t work. He never came round.’ She sighed. ‘I always told him the Sunday papers were bad for his health.’
When it was Connie’s turn to speak, she was brief, almost making light of her dilemma. It seemed so self-indulgent. But Tessa immediately saw through her restraint. ‘What the hell are you going to do?’
Connie shrugged. The wine and Tessa’s sympathetic ear had loosened her grip and she felt herself giving way to self-pity.
Before she could compose herself, Tessa said, ‘Devan will get over it. He adores you. A single mistake in a marriage as long as yours shouldn’t be a deal-breaker.’
‘You think?’ Connie was surprised at her friend’s reaction. She’d expected more shock and disapproval.
‘Christ, Con, we’re only human. Cheating is never great, obviously, but it’s hardly your fault the person you did it with turned out to be a bloody stalker.’ She looked at her intently. ‘He’s totally out of the picture now, right?’
‘Totally. Anyway, he’d never find me here.’
Tessa raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re sure about that?’
She nodded firmly, although she wasn’t as sure as she was making out. On the way up to Hampstead earlier, she’d found herself scanning the tube carriage, the platforms, the pavement, just in case. Dinah, she knew, lived in Highgate, just the other side of the Heath.
There was silence as Tessa leaned back in her chair, wine glass clutched in both hands. ‘Give Devan a bit oftime to calm down … to miss you. Then talk it through.’
It sounded so rational, so simple. But Tessa hadn’t witnessed Devan’s rage, his humiliation at Jared’s hand.
‘You can stay here as long as you like, Connie. I’m off up to Edinburgh on the fifteenth, having a few weeks with the family … which I’m really looking forward to. But you can be here while I’m gone.’ She frowned. ‘Although Christmas holed up all on your lonesome doesn’t sound like much of a plan.’
‘I’ll see how things go, if that’s OK? It’s so kind of you, taking me in like this, Tess.’
‘Believe me, you’re doing me a favour. And if you’re staying, you can look after the cat.’
Connie had not seen any cat, but she smiled and agreed because nothing made sense in her life any more. One moment she’d been looking forward to a cosy family Christmas, checking out recipes for the turkey she and Caitlin would cook together, planning what to buy for her beloved grandson. The next, she was exiled in North London with only Tessa’s cat – whose name, she later discovered, was Monty – for company.
27
Tessa had taken the night sleeper for Scotland five days ago. It was nearly two weeks since Connie had arrived at her friend’s house, and the days had passed slowly. Tessa was working on and off, had presents to organize, other friends to catch up with. But they would have supper and a good glass of wine most evenings, talk like only lifelong friends can. Neither had solutions for each other’s current sorrows, but it was comforting for Connie gradually to unwrap the chaos in her brain with someone who would listen, not judge.
Connie had waved off her friend with trepidation, clutching the house keys, her head spinning with instructions about closing the security grilles on her bedroom window in the half-basement, bin days, what and when to feed Monty, the fact that the gas hob no longer lit automatically, and how to regulate the central heating. Connie had written it all down as soon as she closed the front door, knowing she’d otherwise forget.
Now, waking to an empty house for yet another long and lonely day, she felt desolate. In the time since she’d left home, the only person she’d properly spoken to, apart from Tessa, was Neil. There had been complete radio silence from the rest of her family. Caitlin had not rung back – even to berate her mother. Connie had leftcountless messages, first apologetic, then asking to talk, then, when no response was forthcoming, justLove you xxx
Devan, on the many, many occasions that Connie had called – two or three times daily at first, heart in her mouth – had not picked up, and not returned a single call, although she’d left message after message asking him politely if he would please do so. Unlike with her daughter, she did not apologize to Devan again. She just wanted to talk to him directly, to try to explain. She wanted to apologize to a living person, not a machine.
‘He’s probably licking his wounds,’ Neil said, the last time they’d spoken. ‘Give him time, Con.’
‘How much time, though?’ she’d cried. ‘I feel every day that goes by, he gets further and further away from me. Suppose he just point-blank refuses to speak to me ever again?’ She stopped to catch her breath, overwhelmed by the thought. ‘Help me out, Neil,please. Tell me what I should do.’ Before he’d had a chance to respond, she rushed on: ‘Have you seen him? How is he? Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?’
