Emma Page - Element of Chance

‘How long have you lived apart?’ The Chairman’s tone was polite and neutral, like a doctor enquiring about symptoms.

‘Two and a half years.’

‘A longish time,’ the Chairman said. Long enough to get a divorce, his manner suggested. Or to patch things up if they were ever going to be patched up.

Andrew glanced round the table, knowing even before he did so that it was no good, they’d written him off. Men of decision were what they liked, men of regular life. His glance demolished the last vestige of hope. They were all sitting back in their chairs, relaxed, switched off, no longer bothering even to look at him, simply waiting till the next man took his place.

‘Right then,’ the Chairman said suddenly. He looked across at Andrew, gave him a brief impersonal smile. ‘You’ll be hearing from us within the next day or two.’ No longer any mention of urgent phone calls to Mrs Rolt from the next room. ‘Thank you for coming along.’

That is it, Andrew said to himself with fierce emphasis as he came out into the car park. Finally and irreversibly it. I have finished with Alison. My mind is irrevocably made up. I will not try to hang on to her a moment longer. I’ll get a divorce and marry Celia. She’d back me up in any job, any activity. She’d resign from Sugdens if he asked her to, she’d devote herself with pleasure to being his full-time wife.

He got into his car and eased it out towards the gates. He tried to conjure up a joyful vision of domestic warmth and intimacy such as he had never experienced even in his childhood. He did his best to whip up a feeling of ardour as he contemplated the idea of Celia waiting to greet him at the end of a busy day. She’s had plenty of experience of the hard world of business, he told himself, she’d understand the pressures.

But the prospect remained obstinately bleak, vaguely depressing. It seemed to him that marriage to Celia would signal the end of his youth, would rush him headlong into middle age.

He drove slowly up the road, past the pub, now locked and shuttered. It would be hours yet before they opened again. And he wanted a drink very much indeed. No reason now to resist the idea. And he did after all have something to celebrate – his very decisively settled future.

He would drive on into the town, find an off-licence, have his own little private party in some secluded spot.

On the edge of the town he came to a vast supermarket with a sign that mentioned among the varied delights within a section devoted to wines and spirits. He parked the car and went inside. He bought a nice little selection of conveniently-sized bottles. On his way out again he paused and looked round the long aisles, at the female assistants, the young housewives, the adolescent girls, trying to visualize himself striking up an acquaintance with such fashionably dressed and coiffured creatures, progressing through the ritual stages of intimacy to marriage and children.

It would take months, years possibly. And he didn’t have the time to wait. It would take persistence and effort, charm and gaiety, energy and ardour.

And I don’t have a single damned ounce to spare of any of those highly desirable qualities, he told himself, almost with exuberance, clutching to his chest the bottles in their discreet paper sack.

It’s definitely going to have to be Celia, he told himself yet again as he crossed the car park. The idea seemed more tolerable now. He drove back towards the open country, found a pleasant spot in a lane beneath overhanging trees and opened the first of his bottles. After ten minutes the idea of marrying Celia appeared a good deal more tolerable, after twenty he became greatly pleased with it.

The whole thing would be settled by the time he was summoned to his next interview. He saw himself facing another quartet of shrewd-eyed men. He would be alert and confident. ‘My wife and I reached a civilized agreement’, he was saying in that pleasing vision. ‘A divorce by consent. No recriminations, by far the best way. It’s going through any day now. I shall be marrying again very soon, a sensible, competent woman—’

He frowned, took another swig at his bottle and rephrased that. ‘A most charming woman, highly suitable in every way. And a successful businesswoman into the bargain. A great asset. Yes, certainly she would come along to be introduced.’ She most certainly would, he thought, she’d leap at the chance. ‘And she’d resign her post at Sugdens, no question about that.’ No question at all, he echoed, she’d be penning her resignation before he got the marriage proposal out of his mouth.

The bottle was now empty. I’ll phone Alison before I start on another, he thought. I’ll tell her what I’ve decided. He would go along to see his solicitor in the morning of course – and he’d get round to mentioning the whole thing to Celia at some time or other, no immediate rush about that – but just at this moment he felt a strong impulse to say it all to Alison. Burn his boats, get it over and done with. As he set the car in motion and drove along looking for a phone kiosk he felt light-headed, almost happy.

Alison was drinking a cup of tea when he rang. She had managed to snatch a few minutes’ peace, was sitting at her desk cradling the cup in her hands.

‘I’ve made up my mind,’ Andrew said in a quick voice, high and accusatory. ‘I want a divorce. On the two-year-by-agreement principle. I take it you’ve no objection. I expect you’re bloody pleased.’

He’d been drinking, Alison noted. ‘How did the interview go?’ she asked. ‘Am I to congratulate you?’

‘No bloody good,’ he said. ‘It was the marriage set-up that did for me. They didn’t like it, they didn’t like it one little bit. They like things to be one way or the other. And come to that,’ he added almost in a shout, ‘so do I. I’ve had enough of this neither-fish-nor-flesh nonsense. They wanted me to produce a wife, a one hundred per cent wife, dinner parties, functions, business trips, the lot.’

He’d want a pretty quick divorce, she thought. Tie the whole thing up at the solicitors’ right away, file the petition pronto, not much delay in that sort of case these days. He’d want to be able to marry Celia with the speed of light, produce her like a rabbit from a hat the next time he was asked.

‘I’m sorry about the job,’ she said.

‘Ah well.’ His tone was faintly mollified. ‘Better luck next time. I’ll get along to my solicitor tomorrow morning, get him cracking with the divorce. No point in hanging about.’

‘Divorce,’ she echoed on a reflective note. ‘I’m not so sure I really want one.’

He was brought up short, she heard him gasp.

‘You mean – you’re considering – you mean – you might come back to me?’ By God, he wished she’d told him that when he’d phoned her earlier. He felt a wild leap of his heart, he could have sung out with joy. What did the lousy interview matter now? Plenty of better jobs. He grinned at his image in the little mirror on the kiosk wall.

‘We’ll meet,’ he said with persuasive force. ‘We’ll talk things over. Get it all settled. I’ll come over to Fairview this evening.’

‘Don’t get the wrong idea,’ Alison said. ‘I’m not committing myself to anything at this stage. You must understand that.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said impatiently. ‘Of course I understand. Very natural.’ She couldn’t be expected to climb down from her high horse all in an instant, she’d have her pride to consider.

‘All I’m saying just now,’ she added, ‘is that I’m not sure I want a divorce. I’d need to think about it very carefully.’

‘We could make a fresh start,’ he said with joyful energy. ‘There are great jobs going, terrific salaries. I could tackle anything if you came back. I’d give you anything you want.’ Maybe he hadn’t been the most generous husband in the world but he’d learned his lesson, he’d shower her with luxuries. ‘We must meet,’ he said again. ‘I can tell you anything you want to know, listen to anything you’ve got to say.’