Four
The little black dress, now dry-cleaned, hung in my wardrobe. When I rummaged for clothes, its polythene shroud shivered and clung to the hairs on the back of my hand. I couldn’t touch the thing for weeks.
The summer wore on. As time passed, that evening in Hendon grew increasingly unreal; I could hardly believe it had happened. It was easier to think about Susan than her bereaved husband. By now she had assumed a life of her own—poor, mutilated Susan (why hadn’t she had reconstructive surgery?). Susan the flirt, and possibly the adulteress. Susan the bitch-mother. Susan the good-time girl. Susan the caring nurse. Susan, who sent the Hells Angels packing and who did something terrible in Builth Wells. Speculating on her multiple personalities kept my mind off Evan. Oh, Evan. Needless to say I was spooked by my own behaviour, and deeply ashamed.
But I was also strangely energised. Like an addict, I knew I would do it again. It was only a matter of time.
I saw few people that August. It was the holidays and my pupils had gone. Azra had called them privileged little cretins but I’d loved them for the way they’d struggled under the weight of their parents’ expectations. I’d loved them for their kindness. For their doggedness and vulnerability. For simply being young. But now they’d disappeared to their vacation homes in Cornwall and Umbria. They’d returned to their families in Tehran. They were sailing round the Greek Islands or visiting school-friends in Cape Cod. They were having fun.
So were my own friends. Most had retired, thrown off the shackles and were having a high old time. They barely had time to unpack before they were off again. ‘Your lot, they spend their whole time on frigging airplanes,’ said my daughter. ‘Don’t they give a toss about the planet?’ They gallivanted around the world, riding elephants in Nepal, perching on top of Machu Picchu, toasting each other with Bellinis in Venice and posting their grinning selfies on Facebook.
Cull them! Put snipers in World Heritage hotspots! Shoot the women and leave the men for me! They’d been married for years, they’d had a good run for their money. Wasn’t it my turn?
My envy was eating away at me like a cancerous growth. But I kept it hidden, I’m sure I did. I wasn’t behaving oddly. There was no denying, however, that the invitations had dried up. Not everybody was away that summer. When I was out and about, people waved at me from across the street. But the phone stayed silent. I’d become one of those solitary women who slip through the net.
My birthday came and went. Lucy sent an e-card and Max forgot about it altogether. It was my first birthday without Greg. He’d been a perfectly good present-giver—books, earrings, that sort of thing. Dinner in Soho. But a few years earlier he’d done something unexpected. He’d taken me to Waterloo station, pointed to the departure board and said, ‘Choose any destination and I’ll take you there for lunch.’ I’d chosen Leatherhead, for no discernible reason.