Bread and Chocolate. Philippa Gregory

opinions in silence. Until now she had thought her husband was a rather dull copy of his father. It had been Jeffrey Davidson Senior who had built the company, who had put it at the top in the small market town, who told his son what to do. But apparently – in Elizabeth’s version – Jeff was some kind of financial wizard, and she was a slow housewife, holding him back.

      ‘I see.’ She was remembering, and it was scant comfort, that she had always believed that male fidelity was an act of convenience, not of conviction. Now it seemed that it was more convenient for Jeff to leave his wife than stay with her.

      ‘What shall we do?’ she asked. She could hear panic rising in her voice. ‘What does your father say?’

      ‘He likes Elizabeth. He thinks she’s a real go-getter.’

      Stephanie nodded at this description – an unfortunate one since Elizabeth had gone and got Stephanie’s husband. But if Jeff’s father was giving the affair his blessing then Stephanie was in real danger.

      ‘What work does she do?’

      ‘She’s a personnel consultant. She came to do the sackings at the office last year.’

      ‘And what do you plan?’

      ‘I’ve had a word with our lawyer and he’ll represent you in an amicable settlement. I’ll give you a new house outright, and an allowance, a generous allowance. You won’t lose out.’

      Stephanie looked out across her garden. In the darkening trees the blackbirds were calling, settling for the night. A single thrush, high in the copper beech tree was singing, a long warbling call, its breast gilded by the last rays of the sun. Later there would be little bats swooping low through the soft dusk, and owls calling. She could smell the roses she had planted sixteen years ago, their scent lying heavily on the still evening air. ‘And you will live here with Elizabeth?’

      ‘She’s seen the house. She likes it very much. She says she can really make something out of it.’

      ‘Will you excuse me for a moment?’ Stephanie asked. She cleared the pudding plates into the dishwasher, switched it on, and then went up the stairs to their bedroom. She sat before the kidney-shaped dressing table and adjusted the wings of the mirror so that she could see her profile on each side, a dozen versions of her shrinking into infinity.

      She could imagine the house that Jeff and his father would think suitable for an estranged wife. It would be a small terraced house in a quiet street near the town centre so that she did not need a car. It might be a two-bedroomed flat in an anonymous block near, but not on, the seafront. It would not be a turn of the century family home in mature wooded gardens.

      ‘No,’ she said softly. She took up her hairbrush and gently brushed her bobbed hair. ‘Not in a million years,’ she said firmly.

      She rose from the table and glanced around the room. In the evening sunlight the room glowed in rose and gold. The wallpaper matched the curtains, which echoed the colours of the carpet. The whole room, indeed the whole house, had that attractive English country look which appears so delightfully easy and yet is so hard to achieve, and time-consuming to maintain.

      Stephanie went downstairs again. Jeff had poured himself a large brandy as if in celebration, and was still seated at the table.

      ‘You must do whatever you wish,’ she said.

      ‘I thought I’d stay with Elizabeth until you move out.’

      She nodded. ‘You’ll want me to pack for you, then.’

      ‘I’ll pack,’ Jeff said awkwardly. It would be the first time in sixteen years that he had packed his own bag.

      Stephanie nodded and let him go upstairs into their bedroom. She heard him opening and closing cupboard doors, looking for the suitcases. She wiped down the kitchen worktops and then laid the table for breakfast, with a white tablecloth and white napkins. She laid two places, she thought it looked more poignant. Then she wentupthe stairs and found Jeff thrusting ironed shirts into his suitcase.

      ‘I’ll do that,’ she offered.

      Automatically, he stepped back, but then he hesitated. ‘You shouldn’t,’ he said, embarrassed.

      ‘Why ever not? You’ll only get them crumpled, and Elizabeth will have to iron them again.’

      He forgot his tragic face and laughed. ‘I don’t think she’ll do that!’

      ‘How inconvenient for you. You’ll have to use the laundry service and I hear they’re dreadfully careless.’

      He flung himself on to the little stool before her dressing table, and glanced at his handsome face in the mirror. ‘I can’t bear this,’ he said dramatically.

      ‘Poor Jeff,’ she said sympathetically, folding his shirts carefully and neatly. ‘I do hope you’re doing the right thing.’

      There was a brief silence.

      ‘I thought you would be distraught,’ he said.

      Only Stephanie could have heard the faint note of disappointment in his voice.

      ‘Of course I am,’ she said. ‘But it doesn’t seem real. What shall we do about dinner with the Mitchells on Friday night?’

      He hesitated, and then found the right tone. ‘I have lost it all,’ he said. ‘All! I know it. Our marriage, our friends, everything!’

      She nodded. ‘If that’s what you want, darling.’ She was distracted by the sock drawer. ‘D’you want enough socks for a week, or do you want to take them all?’

      ‘Just enough…all of them…’ His outflung gesture implied his despair. ‘I can’t think about socks at a time like this!’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘Everything does seem terribly wrong, doesn’t it? It doesn’t feel like a good idea at all.’

      ‘Oh, but it is,’ Jeff said hastily. ‘I love her, I can’t help myself. I’ve never…’

      ‘And all your winter suits?’ she interrupted. ‘They’ve all been dry cleaned, of course.’

      ‘You’ll miss the house,’ he said, trying to invoke her distress.

      ‘Oh, of course. But it’s such hard work. The garden alone is two days every week. Does Elizabeth garden?’

      ‘No,’ he said moodily.

      ‘You’ll have to get a gardener then,’ she said. ‘I’ll find a good one and leave Elizabeth a note. They’re dreadfully expensive. It’ll be about £80 a week. And a housekeeper on top of that.’

      ‘A housekeeper? What will we want a housekeeper for?’

      She turned her guileless face to him. ‘Elizabeth isn’t going to want to do dusting and cleaning at the end of a day’s work, is she? All that exhausting sacking of people that she must do? And shopping and cooking dinner, and your breakfast, surely?’

      ‘Well, no…but…’

      ‘I’ll leave you the number of an agency. They’re about ten pounds an hour, you’ll need someone to come in for at least three hours a day…’ She started folding his jackets and laying them carefully on top of the suitcase. ‘Say six days a week…gracious! That’s £180 a week. And the gardener as well. That’s £260 a week, um, more than £1000 a month. Darling, this is going to be fearfully expensive. Are you sure you can afford it?’

      Jeff looked anxious. He hated spending money.

      ‘But Elizabeth will help, I’m sure.’ She took a gamble. ‘Is she very well paid?’

      ‘Not yet,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘She’s a freelance.’

      Stephanie looked despondent. ‘She won’t do the secretarial work and the book-keeping then?’