Jennie Ensor - The Girl in His Eyes

Paul turned his head to follow her until she left the room. His expression as he turned back was odd, almost shocked. He picked up his large, tulip-shaped wine glass. When he put down the glass, there was only a purplish residue above the stem.

An uneasy sensation pooled in her gut. First it had been that girl at Katherine’s party. Then she’d caught him waving to the leggy girl at number 39, who went past with her family’s dog – a huge Boxer that always snarled at Marmaduke. The other Sunday, Paul had stopped cleaning the car and stood chatting to her on the pavement. She’d seen them from the bedroom window. It looked as if they had been conversing for quite a while, with frequent smiles on both sides. She hadn’t made out any words. After a minute or so she’d become uneasy, standing there behind the curtain like a paranoid wife, and had hurried back downstairs before anyone saw her. And now, this girl. All of them would still be at school, not even halfway through their teens. That was odd, wasn’t it?

She tossed the thought away, wondering at herself. Surely, she couldn’t be jealous of girls who were young enough to be her own daughters – or granddaughters? She was putting two and two together and making five. When he chose to be, Paul could be charming and friendly with all sorts of people – men and women, young and old – it was just his way.

They took their cognacs into the lounge. The embers in the grate glowed red. As they sat down on the sofa there was a sharp crack, then a thud as a large log fell, sending up a shower of orange sparks. Suzanne relaxed. She was glad to be away from the formality of the restaurant. They talked of the places they wanted to visit, and friends they would like to see in the years ahead, while they were still healthy and active.

She put her hand on Paul’s.

‘Do you think we’ll still be together in another twenty-five years?’

‘I’m sure we will, Suze, if we’re still around by then – if you haven’t worried yourself to death.’ He swallowed the last of his cognac then squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs.’

She followed Paul along the hall, her heels tapping on the polished wood floor. They passed the enormous antlered head that lunged out of the wall and began climbing the stairs.

A sudden blast of sound from below startled her, like someone banging on a giant gong with all their strength. She stopped, jerkily, nearly losing her footing on the stairs.

‘Oh my God! What’s that?’

‘Careful, you’ll knock that cat over. It’s only the grandfather clock.’

Heart thudding, she stepped away from the window ledge, which bore a heavy-looking statue of a creature bearing some resemblance to a cat – a sinister, wolfish cat. It was wobbling, but wasn’t going to fall, thank goodness.

The lamps on either side of their bed cast a yellowish glow over the room. A vase of mauve heather stood on the antique dressing table, which had been polished to a high shine. Suzanne opened a small window and leaned out, taking a deep breath of soft, clean air. The sky was huge and so magnificently black, not the patches of washed-out, yellowish brown they had at home. Stretching across it, the lacy swathes of the Milky Way. There were too many stars to take in, as if a child had thrown handfuls of glitter at a black canvas. A rush of awe inside her. How could anyone not look at this and marvel? The universe was vast, unknowable, and greater than anything anyone could imagine. It made her worries seem insignificant.

Paul unfastened her shoes then removed her dress. They kissed on the bed with an unusual intensity, then he undressed and they started to make love. Her responses seemed muffled, weaker than usual. Suddenly, he stood and moved her to stand against the window frame. He thrust harder from behind. She shivered in the cool air, hoping it wouldn’t take too much longer. Then, without warning, she began to moan. Her body had come to life. He moved more urgently, pushing her into the wall. A shudder went through her, a gasp escaped her mouth. The orgasm thrilled her, its unexpected intensity drenching her.

Lying in the darkness, wrapped in his arms, thoughts of their marriage came and went. Were things really as bad as she’d imagined? Their sex life might be less varied and, in general, less passionate than it once had been. It certainly wasn’t over, though. Emotionally too, she’d felt closer to Paul this weekend than she had for a long time. Had he just needed a break from the demands of work? Or could this all just be an act he’d put on to please her, mindful of their anniversary? Was he secretly fed up with her, waiting for an opportunity to meet someone else?

No, that was ridiculous.

Although she willed them to stop, the thoughts carried on. Perhaps he had met someone already. He was always so keen to leave for Putney on Saturdays. If he wasn’t interested in Jane, could he have his eye on Emma? After all, she was young, slim, attractive.

Emma? No, that was totally crazy. Emma wasn’t even a teenager. Her husband wouldn’t be attracted to a child of twelve. He was helping Jane, that’s all, doing her a favour.

God, she really was getting paranoid. This had to stop. She wasn’t going to let herself become one of those sad women who lived in permanent fear of their partner straying. She had to trust Paul – at least, until she had a good reason not to.

Laura sat up and rubbed her eyes. She felt sluggish, unrefreshed from her night’s sleep. The sun glared through a gap in the curtains. At least there was one good thing about being unemployed: no one gave a hoot if you spent half the morning in bed. Then the dart of memory, a shadow falling and darkening everything. This was the day. Her mother would be here in just two hours.

In the bathroom, Laura splashed her face with cold water. The basin and mirror weren’t particularly clean and patches of mould were sprouting from cracks between the tiles. She inspected the rest of the flat. In the living area, the carpet looked wearier than ever, alongside the meagre furniture and a clutter of newspapers, the discarded cups and CDs. In the kitchen, unwashed crockery queued next to the kitchen sink. Above it, bottle-green cupboards flaked paint.

Why had she suggested her mother come here – and what were they going to have for lunch? She removed a cookery book from the shelf, leafed quickly through its glossy photographs, and returned it. The recipes were far too complicated and time-consuming. It would have to be pasta.

After a quick shower, she set to work with as much vigour as she could muster. The physical effort of cleaning helped her to stop thinking about what would happen later that afternoon. Every time she paused for a few moments, the knowledge of it returned, along with a sloshing and roiling inside her gut, like something nasty was stuck there.

At 1.30pm Laura sat down and waited for the buzzer. Everything was ready. The dirt and mess had gone and every surface gleamed expectantly. Fresh fruit salad in glass bowls. A bottle of wine chilled in the fridge. A vase of assorted bright flowers from the local supermarket overlooked the table, which was now covered in the unused tablecloth her mother had given her. A clean, folded towel on the bathroom rail.

Ten minutes later her mother arrived, wafting a crisp floral scent, a daffodil-yellow silk scarf tied at her neck.

‘Hello, darling.’ Her mother stepped inside, arms opening for a hug. ‘You’ve got the flat looking spick and span. I love the new cushions.’

‘Thanks, Mum. How was your weekend away?’

‘The hotel was fabulous – we had champagne in our room when we arrived, breakfast in bed.’ Her hands began to dance, as they always did when she became enthusiastic.