Never Too Late To Believe - 14. Family Portraits

At breakfast, Andy yawned, a wide-mouthed gape that showed his recently scaled and polished teeth off to perfection. He drooped in his seat and tried to resist the temptation to place both elbows on the table to support his head.

“More coffee?” Adam made to reach over for the pot.

“No – you're fine.” Andy used one index finger to rub his eyes. “Having spent most of the weekend finessing that garden plan for Emily Standish, my brain wouldn't let it go.”

“Oh, I hate that.” Opposite, the other man forked a small mound of scrambled eggs, mushrooms, and bacon. “I seem to remember turning over sometime during the night and finding you not there.”

“Yeah – I got up a couple of times to fetch a drink and walk around a bit.” He continued to munch a banana. A small heap of oatcakes waited to one side in case he fancied them. That morning, fried food didn't appeal.

“Much on today?”

“Only this afternoon.” Andy struggled to focus. “A couple of client updates followed by phoning round local dental practices to see if any of them are taking NHS patients.”

“Hmm… good luck with that.”

“It's for Eric. Anyway. I'll be functioning better by then.”

They both returned to that morning's alerts and emails, devices propped up against any convenient item of crockery on the kitchen table. A companionable silence only lasted a minute or two.

“OK.” Andy frowned at his screen.

“Hmm?”

“My boss, Claire, is back onto her pet project. She wants my help.”

“Pet project? I thought you and Eric were her pet project.” A wide-eyed look of innocence dissolved into an evil grin. “And you're definitely the one in need of help.”

Andy give him the finger. “Smart arse. No – you remember the time she and Eric ate with us?”

“Yeah.” Adam's eyes narrowed as he thought. “Ah – the food bank proposal? I'd forgotten all about that.”

“Claire says she's found suitable premises in town. Now all she needs is people to staff the place.”

“Volunteers.”

“Yeah, but first of all she's looking for more experienced guys to set the thing going. Budgets, structures, personnel – the basics.”

Adam rounded up the last pieces of bacon on his plate. “How about your latest client? From what you've said, she and her husband might be useful.”

“Emily? Yeah.” Andy tapped away on his screen. “Just leaving myself a reminder to phone her. Good idea.”

“I do have them once in a while.”

Cooked breakfast eaten, Adam got up to toast bagels for them both.

Quiet descended over the breakfast table, punctuated only by sounds of chewing and the odd yawn. Andy was content to let most things pass him by. He wondered if he'd caught some bug – one night's sleep deprivation didn't usually result in being unable to function the following morning. Maybe it was advancing age. A mental image of he and Adam in a kitchen, still friends and lovers several decades later, made him smile. A marriage was meant to last. He hoped theirs would.

“Really? Fuck, that was quick.” Adam's voice broke through the rose-tinted dream.

Andy resurfaced. “What?”

His fiancé stared at his device with a quizzical expression. “Herefordshire Life's sent through the proofs for our section of their 'Getting married' article.”

“Oh.” Prodding his own tablet without result, Andy felt left out. He looked up to see an amused smirk.

“They obviously know the guy who's in charge.”

Sluggish brain cells took too long to search for a riposte. Andy was saved by a ping announcing his own copy. Silence returned, this time punctuated by sniffs and an occasional grunt as the two of them took stock.

Andy briefly shook his head in exasperation. A cough made him look up. Adam raised an eyebrow.

He scowled. “How many hours did we spend humouring that bloody photographer at Croome?”

“Too many. Three? Four?”

“Felt like the entire day. God, how long can you honestly spend setting up each shot?”

“We were mere props. Did you see him drooling over the house and grounds?” Adam rolled his eyes.

“See? The guy wouldn't shut up about the ambience or the fucking colour palette. Don't you remember? Everything was 'divine' or 'to die for'.” He mimicked the photographer's exaggerated tones.

“Original as well.”

Andy pinched out his screen. “All we've got to show for it is this one photo?”

“You have to admit it's wonderful.”

“Yeah, but–”

“Captures the glorious weather – even you got a little burnt–”

“If he hadn't made us stand around for hours. Tosser – completely self-absorbed.”

“Don't be so mean.” The grin Andy knew and loved grew opposite. “Croome's sandstone almost glows against the blues and greens. You look like some Hollywood star, standing there.”

“Bollocks! I look positively weather-beaten compared to you, tiger.”

“Ah… it must be that new wonder face cream I'm using.”

Hoots of laughter followed.

Adam refilled his mug. “Or rather, if I didn't get out at weekends, I'd have the complexion of a vampire.”

“You lack the teeth though.”

His fiancé shrugged. “Did you mention to Ma this was happening?”

“The article? Nope. Have you?”

Adam looked at him bleakly. “No. Fuck knows what my father's reaction is going to be. I guess the less she knows, the better.”

“Maybe we can sneak a copy to her when it's out.”

“Yeah – she'd like that.”

Andy peered at the screen again, zooming in and out.

“There are a few more shots following the text blocks.” Adam picked up his device. “Maybe they'll only place them later.”

Andy skipped through the document until the extra images appeared. His eyes widened as he studied each one. If the Court was the backdrop to the main portrait, Croome's parkland now starred. Take one picturesque, eighteenth-century idyll and a modern pair of lovers soon to be wed. He flicked between two photos in particular.

“What d'you think of the text?” Adam's question made little impression. “Hardly the stuff of great reportage but it's adequate.”

Ignoring him, Andy lingered over the final image. He recalled the circumstances clearly. As a joke to counter the mind-numbing tedium, they'd agreed to gaze into each other's eyes like two lovesick teens out of a trashy romance novel. When they took up the pose though, any thoughts of a prank dissipated within seconds. Lost in their own world, they scarcely noticed that day's hate figure taking a volley of shots from every possible angle. Reality intruded when the guy marched up, camera in hand, demanding they admire his work. Neither he nor Adam spent more than a second or two looking. Andy smiled to himself. Mid-afternoon – their tiredness and hunger won out.

And yet… he looked again. In that one image, some unknown alchemic process captured the essence of their relationship – love, friendship, desire. The fact they were destined to be together. His heart swelled.

He wondered if it was possible to get copies. Art-printed, enlarged copies.

“The text?” Adam reached over and tapped him on the arm.

“Sorry. Miles away.” That morning's mental fog returned. He read each line of prose without any coherent sense of what they meant. “Seems fine.”

“I spotted a couple of minor errors. Sort it out with them later.”

“Great.” Andy stretched. “Is it too decadent if I have a second shower?”

“A cold one?”

“No.” He hesitated. “Maybe? Something to get me going.” After a pause, he commented, “I really like that last photo.”

“Yeah? Me too. It encapsulates everything about us. In fact–”

A familiar smirk appeared on Adam's face, one thread out of many that bound them together, but this time a latent heat gave it extra force. Andy swallowed.

“I've already enquired about copies. One in particular. Something big enough to stand out on that blank wall in our bedroom. Yeah?”

“Self-indulgent?” Andy glowed at the possibility though.

“Who cares? It's not a Mapplethorpe or anything.” Adam sprawled back in his seat. “When the next husband comes along, I can always change it for something else.”

His own answering finger elicited a growling chuckle – an immediate turn-on – until Adam spotted the time.

“Shit!” He leapt up. “This lawyer has a client meeting. Soon. Frighteningly soon. Bye, love.”

Three minutes later, Andy was alone in the house. He returned to the photo and spent several luxurious moments revelling in the glories of Adam's captured image. Time for that second shower and a leisurely, satisfying wank.

“What is the world coming to?”

At lunch in the dining room, Felicity examined her bowl of chicken Caesar salad closely as her husband used a fist to pound the polished oak table.

“It's a bloody disgrace!” Another blow made the wooden structure shudder. Wine glasses lurched.

From experience, she knew which outbursts required a response. Mostly. A nervous gulp followed. “What's happened, Oliver?”

He preferred to be addressed as 'dear' both at home and in public but the word stuck in her throat that lunchtime more than usual.

A glare followed. Oliver brandished his phone, an oversized, ridiculously expensive gadget stuffed with features she guessed he didn't use or even understand. Felicity continued to chew and swallow while attempting to keep an expression of wifely concern fixed in place. Her left hand trembled. She hid it in her lap, plying the fork with her right.

“Raife's boy is getting married soon. What's his name again?”

“Cameron.” She was expected to retain an encyclopaedic knowledge of her husband's friends and acquaintances.

“Bloody stupid name. They're not Scottish. Anyway, Raife's sights remain fixed on a pretty filly for the boy, I'm told. Rich, as well.” He took a gulp from his glass. They were new – designed to hold almost a third of a bottle each.

Felicity wondered whether that was how their own ill-starred union had been described. From the little she knew of the family, Cameron's marriage would be as much to escape a domineering parent as for any love. Swallowing became more difficult.

“Raife says Herefordshire Life, worthless, contemptible rag if ever I saw one, is going to post an article featuring the pair.”

“I thought you–” She shut down the question. Only the previous month, he'd praised the magazine for promoting some over-priced weekend 'experiences' at a boutique hotel. 'That's something we should do. We'd make a killing.'

She made a mental note to remove any old copies and put them in the recycling. “Doesn't he think it's a good thing?”

“He did, stupid bugger, until Cameron told him who else would be featured.”

Chew and swallow. She felt like an automaton. This diatribe – a poor pretence for a conversation – was like so many others.

Oliver's face suffused with a blotchy, purplish red. “Immigrants and bloody queers – that's who! Is no-one else getting hitched in this damn county? Place is going to the dogs. Raife's a fool if he allows the boy to continue.”

“But–” An image of their son and his fiancé laughing and hugging floated into her mind. Could it be them? Felicity chewed her lip. They would've told her.

Her husband slammed the table again. “If I say it's a disgrace–”

It's a bloody disgrace. Felicity silently completed one of her husband's favourite phrases. He took another gulp of wine before refilling his glass. Was that the third or fourth time?

“Don't you think you've–”

“I'm off out.” The wine disappeared in a couple of swallows.

“Where?”

“None of your fucking business, woman.”

“Do you want supper when you get back?” Her lower lip quivered.

“Yes.” His imposing bulk leant over the table. “And it'd better be an improvement on yesterday's pigswill.” Oliver's face reddened further. “Call yourself a wife? A mother? Fucking waste of space, more like.”

She gritted her teeth. A tic caused one eyelid to quiver.

Not waiting for an answer, Oliver marched off to the library. A few minutes later, she heard the heavy front door slam shut. The revving of a car engine was followed by spinning wheels and the crunch and splatter of displaced gravel.

Anger and shame flooded through her system. Felicity poured enough wine to fill the bottom of her glass and drank. “Good riddance.”

Sitting in her bedroom – the only part of the house she regarded as hers – Felicity allowed a trickle of raw hatred to warm a stomach clenched by fear and unwanted food. “Bastard!”

Thoughts turned to the previous week and the looked-for, supposedly solitary picnic. That short period of freedom on the Wednesday had promised to be a highlight. Her chance to meet with Emily Standish missed.

“How sad is that?” She wondered if other women her age, trapped in loveless marriages, endured such empty lives. Making the boys' wedding arrangements was the only thing keeping her sane. Winter without even that would be difficult and grey.

Oliver insisted the policing of her life was for her own good. She was too naïve, too trusting, too likely to become other men's sport. Memories resurfaced of a county ball. She'd made a real effort – dress, make-up, accessories. Why, she couldn't recall. Maybe a brief flowering of self-respect. Anyway, once Oliver had disappeared outside to pursue who knew what, she attracted attention.

A man about her age wandered over and introduced himself. He was nothing to look at, she recalled, but crinkles round his eyes and laughter lines elsewhere suggested someone with liveliness and hope. They chatted about the trials of maintaining large, older houses and exchanged horror stories of woodworm, mouse infestations, and dry rot. Felicity smiled. Somehow they ended up laughing. Other guests came to join them. Welcome, animated people who treated her like an intelligent human being.

Felicity's expression froze. She stared at the old, well-loved bedspread, finding solace in its patterns.

By the time Oliver returned to the room, there'd been quite a hum. A distinct cluster of people, enjoying themselves, talking with spirit, all centred around her. She so far forgot herself to smile at the first guest, the one who'd started the whole thing off. He had his hand poised at the small of her back when Oliver cut through the throng like an arrow. Another younger guy who was leaning in to hear better, sprang out of the way with a curse. No greetings, no apologies, nothing, before she was hauled off like a bratty pre-teen girl by her fuming spouse.

They'd left almost immediately, she breathing in wafts of alcohol-laced air, scented further by an unknown perfume, with every shallow gasp. Felicity shuddered. God, once they were home, the row had been spectacular, followed by a tightening of curbs on her freedom which had hardly ever been relaxed since.

She let out a long, almost-pained breath. When had her memories become mostly bad?

The picnic would've been a welcome exception. Arrangements with Emily Standish went swimmingly. Tempting fate perhaps? Swapping texts increased the sense of anticipation – her side was kept going late at night, after Oliver lay in his own bed, snoring in a drunken stupor. She always deleted and wiped the messages by the start of the following day.

Then came Tuesday morning, only a day before the planned excursion.

Walking into the village for a pint of milk, she'd met two young men who were evidently staying at the holiday cottage close by the mediaeval church, Were they gay? She hadn't come to any conclusive opinion, but watching them fooling around reminded her achingly of Adam and Andy. The mock dispute apparently centred on each man's ability – or inability – to interpret a map showing local walks. As she approached, prior to crossing over for the shop, they implored her to adjudicate. For once, she stopped to chat. Setting them straight was the work of minutes and she suggested a couple of local beauty spots to head for.

Their charm and openness encouraged a short exchange. Where they were from. How long they were staying. What else they'd done. She sighed. Warmth and genuine laughter acted as a balm. For those few short minutes…

“And then some interfering bastard had to go and spoil it all – them, friendship with Emily, and the sodding picnic.” Stinging eyes signalled tears. She grabbed a tissue and applied it briskly.

Conscious of minutes ticking by, she'd left the shop in a hurry. Their winding track of a driveway had never seemed so long. Hurrying round to the back of the house, she deposited the carton of milk on the kitchen table. The priority was to say she was back. Everything appeared normal until she crossed the central, paved atrium towards the library. Always cooler than the rest of the house, an atmosphere of brooding menace made her stop. Shivers set in. Forcing herself to breathe, she listened.

A deep smoker's cough came from the living room. Knowing any further delay would only worsen matters, she turned, straightened her hair, and went in.

“Where the fuck have you been, woman?” Her husband turned, puce in the face and furious. “D'you think I don't know long it takes to buy a pint of milk?”

A barrage of questions and accusations followed. An interrogation in all but name. Soon enough, Oliver topped off his accusations by showing her several long-distance photos. Of course, they showed the two young men and her sharing a joke in the sunshine.

She gaped at them disbelievingly.

Her husband smirked. “Given to me by a concerned resident. Thought the parish council should know about the deviants staying in that holiday cottage.” The smirk warped into a snarl. “And what should I see? My fucking wife making a fool of herself. Again. What d'you have to say to that?”

The stream of relentless psychological pressure gradually slowed as even Oliver had to accept she'd never met the men before. How many times did she reiterate that fact? It didn't stop him from seizing her phone. She'd watched in frozen, mutinous silence as he smashed it beyond repair with a heavy crystal ashtray. A short repeat lecture on expected behaviour followed as if she was a recalcitrant, sulky teen. He denied her another phone. She was barred from leaving the house – unless in his company – until 'she'd learnt once more to behave properly'.

Contacting Emily about the picnic had proved impossible.

The memory added to her queasy stomach. Well, fuck him. For once, a spark of independence wasn't immediately flattened by Oliver's wrath. Felicity reached over for her handbag. If her husband could go out for the afternoon, so could she.

She unzipped a secret compartment-within-a-compartment in her handbag. Out came a brightly-coloured, pre-loaded payment card, good for one hundred pounds. She stared at it. A couple of months previously, she'd decided to buy one of the cards for a godson's eighteenth birthday. Pausing at the payment page, some urge made her add a second. Insurance? Hope for a future, maybe. She passed off the resulting expense to Oliver as an indulgent godmother's privilege. The story stood. She knew the lad was saving every penny of his own money for a first motorbike.

A glance at her watch increased the pace of preparations. If she hurried, she might catch Vivienne, their cleaner, on her way out. A lift in her car to the nearest station would be helpful. How she would get back was another matter. Felicity wondered briefly what the other woman thought of their domestic arrangements. With a shrug, she grabbed the bag and a plain, non-descript jacket and shut the bedroom door behind her.

Away from Hereford's main retail area, Felicity stood and looked up and down a dingy street that appeared straight out of the 1950s. Except for the metal shutters and none-too-clean neon signs advertising fried chicken, alleged Chinese food, and a laundrette. A number of shops were vacant; some displayed To Let signs that had evidently been there for some time. The one well-tended spot, alive with colour and light, belonged to a Polish-owned convenience store. A sign in the window advertised the availability of phones in four languages.

Vivienne's recommendation had proved correct so far. How her cleaner knew of its existence, she had no idea. Taking a calming breath, she crossed the road and entered.

A quick assessment of the other customers showed her efforts to dress down had only been partially successful. A couple of tradesmen in work overalls bickered over soft drinks by a battered upright fridge while an elderly woman eyed a shelf stacked with tins labelled in what Felicity presumed to be Polish. They could equally be from Romania or Slovakia – the county's seasonal migrant workers came from all across eastern Europe. She didn't care. No-one knew her. Nor was it probable any of Oliver's minions operated in the area.

A woman sat slouched beside the checkout, attention focussed on her phone. Only the occasional momentary glance upwards acknowledged the presence of customers.

Felicity approached, heart thudding unexpectedly. She wasn't about to commit a crime. Not in her eyes, anyway. “Excuse me?”

The assistant stared back without speaking, jaw working a wad of gum.

“I'd like to buy a phone.”

A jerk of the woman's head directed her to a wall display further down, still on the staff side of the counter.

Felicity looked. All the handsets appeared roughly the same. “Could you recommend one? I don't keep up.”

The assistant shrugged. She leant over and opened a door leading into the back somewhere. “Tomasz!”

The screech made Felicity jump. She waited until a middle-aged man sporting a large moustache emerged before trying again. “Hi.” Phones were men's business apparently.

He approached, his face showing more interest than the other woman's.

“I'm looking for a phone. Something inexpensive.” She felt a need to explain. “I lost mine earlier today. The replacement's going to take several days to arrive. You know how it is.” An apologetic smile hovered on her lips. “I can't wait that long. Which of these would you recommend?”

The transaction didn't take long. Soon a new phone, sim card, and ten pounds of data credit were hers. None of it required any exchange of personal details.

Outside the shop, she examined her prize. Even she recognised it was hardly up with the market leaders. “Who cares? As long as it makes calls and sends texts, that's fine by me.”

A newfound sense of independence jostled with nagging anxiety when she realised the time. The one bus of the day whose route passed by the village was due to leave soon. Felicity stored the precious handset in her bag. Transferring it to some inconspicuous drawer in her bedroom would be imperative as soon as she arrived home.

Meanwhile, she needed to get a move on.