The Peacock Emporium(60)

Neil, she discovered, over successive months, was focused, uncomplicated, and, unlike her previous, only occasionally faithful boyfriends, utterly reliable. He bought her the things a boyfriend theoretically should—regular flowers, perfume after trips abroad, occasional weekends away, and, at appropriate intervals, impressively sized engagement, wedding, and eternity rings. Her parents loved him. Her friends eyed him speculatively, several with a sly persistence that told her he would never be alone for long. His flat had French windows that overlooked Barnes Bridge. He slotted into her life with an ease that convinced her they were meant to be together.

They had married young. Too young, her parents had worried, knowing nothing of her busy romantic history. She had batted away their concerns with the certainty of someone who knew themselves to be adored, who knew of no gaps for doubt to nestle in. She looked stunning in her cream silk dress.

If, later, she wondered whether she would ever again feel that first flush of excitement, that tingling anticipation for the sexual attention of another, she could usually rationalize it away. It was inevitable that one would wish occasionally for a taste of the exotic. With a man who now frequently felt more like an irritating older brother than a lover, it was obvious that she would cast the odd covetous glance elsewhere. She, of all people, knew that shopping around could be addictive.

Ever since the row about the shooting, Neil had been withdrawn. Nothing was obviously wrong, just a cooling in their domestic climate. In some ways, Suzanna realized, it was the best thing he could have done. She was always better when she had to work for his attention. So, although Neil might initially have thought otherwise, things for them had been improving, even if only in increments.

Perhaps Neil knew it too, and perhaps that was why, for her birthday, he had brought her to London for sushi.

“I’ll eat anything you throw at me,” Neil had said, ”as long as you don’t make me eat one of those puddings.”

“The pink testicles?”

“That’s the one.” Neil wiped his mouth with a napkin. “D’you remember when you made me eat one in Chinatown, and I had to spit it out in my gym bag?”

She smiled, pleased that the memory didn’t carry with it any revulsion or irritation.

“It’s the texture. I fail to understand how anyone can eat something the consistency of a pillow.”

“But you eat marshmallows.”

“Different. Somehow nothing testicular about them.”

It had been the first evening she could remember when they had talked freely, without a second, silent conversation full of recrimination running under the surface. She had wondered, privately, whether it was just the pleasure of being in Central London, before deciding that most of her troubles were to do with analyzing things too much. A short memory and a sense of humor, that was what her grandmother had said were necessary for a successful marriage. Even if she herself had never displayed the evidence of either.

“You look nice,” he had said, watching her over the green tea. And she had been able to forgive him the use of such a vapid word.

At ten fifteen, as they walked through a balmy, bustling Leicester Square, he had told her that they were not returning to Dere Hampton that night. “Why?” she had said, shouting over the Hare Krishnas and their tambourines. “Where are we going?”

“A surprise,” he said. “Because we’re doing better financially. Because you work so hard. And because my wife deserves a treat.” And he had walked her to a discreetly luxurious hotel in Covent Garden, where the very window boxes spoke of good taste and the kind of attention that would guarantee a good night’s stay, even if Suzanna had not already been brimming with pleasure at the way her evening was turning out. And in their room was an overnight bag that he had apparently packed that morning and spirited away. He had only forgotten her moisturizer.

Passion, in marriage, ebbed and flowed. Everyone said it. If, for a change, she gave him her full attention, if she tried to push aside all the things that annoyed her, that persisted in creeping in and polluting her finer feelings; if she tried to focus on the things that were good, then it wasn’t impossible that they could recover it. “I love you,” she had said, and felt a huge relief that, even after everything, she still meant it.

He had held her tightly then and, unusually for him, stayed silent.

At eleven fifteen, as they sipped room-service champagne, he had turned to face her, the coverlet slipping down his bare skin. She noted how pale he was. Their first year without a foreign holiday. In fifteen months he was going to be forty, he said.

And?

He had always wanted to be a dad before he was forty.

She said nothing.

And, he was thinking, if it took an average eighteen months to get pregnant, shouldn’t they start trying now? He just wanted to be a dad, he said quietly. To have a family of his own. He had put down his glass and held her face between two warm hands. He looked a little apprehensive, as if he were aware that broaching this subject might breach the terms of their deal, that he might fracture the fragile peace that had made the evening magical.

But then, he hadn’t known he was asking her something she had already decided. She had said nothing, but lay back, placing her own glass on the opposite table.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said softly.

In the blur of the champagne, she felt a little like a fish on dry land. Breathing, gasping, but somehow, finally, accepting of her fate.