‘It’s not about staying slim,’ I point out. ‘It’s about the power of knowing I’m fit, strong and fast. I work long hours. It’s easier to do that if I’m fit.’
‘You really should try and relax, babe.’
People have told me this all my life. I’ve never listened. He leans in to kiss me and then sets about teasing another orgasm out of me. I’m left quivering, and for the first time I consider that he might have a point; maybe relaxing suits me. At least, this sort of relaxation. I am so chilled that I don’t even bother to tell him I’m not especially keen on the endearment ‘babe’. I’m aware that it’s infantilising and basic-level sexist. I’m not a tiny being, helpless or naive; I don’t need him to look after me, far from it. But the thing is (whisper it), part of me does rather like him having a special name for me. It’s sort of wonderful. I’ve never been a fan of pet names (even the term turns my stomach), but every time he calls me ‘babe’, I find I inwardly smile. ‘Hey, babe, how’s your day going?’ His voice breezy down the telephone line. Or the endearment sprinkled through his texts. Babe, I was wondering, do you want to go to … Babe, have you ever read … It’s delightfully strange.
I wonder what his pet name for Becky was.
This invasive thought about her is unwelcome. It tinges my current joy with a streak of something rotten. All my pervasive thoughts about her do that, and yet they keep coming, as annoying as uninvited visitors knocking at the door just when you’re settling down to watch TV. Might he have called her babe too? I don’t like that idea, but worse still is the thought that her pet name might have been something deeper. Something more. He probably called her ‘my darling’ or ‘my love’. I won’t ask him, because he will tell me; he’s scrupulously honest and straightforward, a characteristic that sounds more appealing than it turns out to be in fact.
A few weeks ago, I asked him how they met, and while it turned out to be in a very standard way, through work, when he spoke of their first meeting, his face lit up as though a switch had been flicked somewhere deep in his head, and his eyes sparkled on full beam. The intensity was disarming, and I stupidly asked, ‘Was it love at first sight?’ I posed this question without sincere conviction, because that’s not a real thing, is it? It makes no sense. Real love must be based upon mutual respect, common ground and shared experience. It can’t be instantaneous. I was really asking was the attraction immediate, mutual? I should have been more disciplined. I shouldn’t want to know.
His face softened as he recollected. ‘I think it was, yes. I think that’s how it would be judged. Certainly I’ve never felt like that before or since. She consumed me from the off.’
I was made uncomfortable by the intensity of his response. And yes, I was peeved by it. Was it necessary to add ‘or since’? In a fated effort to hide my awkwardness, I blurted out a second question. ‘And did she feel the same?’
‘I’m not sure she did, no.’ He grinned nostalgically. ‘I proposed within a year of us meeting, but she turned me down.’
‘So you proposed again?’
‘And again, and again.’
‘So when did she finally accept?’
He looked a little startled by my tone. I suppose I might have sounded exasperated, or irritated, or envious. Not great.
‘I had to work quite hard for a few years to persuade her to marry me,’ he said carefully.
His response gave me a painful insight into their relationship. I was embarrassed for him, mortified that he had done the running. In our case, he hadn’t had to do much running. Any at all. I wanted to be caught by him. This fact makes me feel less important, less interesting and challenging. I wish I didn’t always feel less in comparison to her. I’m not used to it. Until I started dating Matthew, I was very firmly OK with who I am, what I contribute to the world, what my worth is. I’m frustrated that she hadn’t matched his devotion. But if he’d told me she was equally enamoured with him as he was with her, would that have been better? Would I want to think of their reciprocal unparalleled passion? I don’t think so.
I tried to keep my tone jovial as I probed. ‘How did you eventually woo her?’
He laughed out loud. ‘The traditional way. I maxed out all my credit cards.’
I am ashamed to admit, even to myself, that I want to find fault with his poor dead wife. I conclude that his relationship with Becky was obviously transactional. Basic. But even that isn’t as comforting as I’d hoped. He doesn’t spend a lot of money on me. We both know I’m far wealthier, so I pick up the tab for the hotel rooms and the dinners. He doesn’t buy me gifts. What’s the point? I can buy myself anything I need or want. I’ve never wanted him, or any man, to buy me things. Being jealous or irritated of something I don’t want is irrational; I don’t like being irrational. Thinking of her usually makes me feel frustrated, angry, sad or defensive. Always something bad.
I’ve googled her. Naturally. I couldn’t stop myself. Becky Charlton and Rebecca Charlton. The search results were dominated by a TV presenter of that name. I discovered there are several Becky Charltons, but none of them is obviously identifiable as Matthew’s dead wife. Even when I tried to narrow down my search by age, profession, obituaries, I didn’t discover any definitive information or images. I suppose she might not even have been called Charlton; she might have kept her own surname. I don’t know what that was.
Matthew hasn’t volunteered a photograph, and I can’t bring myself to ask him to show me one. It’s undignified. It’s a giveaway. He’d know I’m thinking about her. Fixating on her. Not knowing what she looks like drives me wild. Was she white or black or brown? Tall, petite, athletically built or voluptuous? I imagine her in endless, various incarnations: authoritative sleek dark bob, cool room-owning afro, romantic soft blonde curls, dynamic peroxide pixie cut. My own hair is shoulder length, it’s a mid-brown colour, made a little bit more exciting by professional highlights. I don’t have a fringe. I sometimes wear it in a ponytail, nothing more adventurous than that. It’s the sort of hair many women around my age have, hair that’s not quite as glossy as it once was. I wonder if Becky had piercings, tattoos. She was arty, so either or both are probable. Does he find me dull by comparison? My skin is devoid of ink. I have my ears pierced once and wear discreet gold studs. I waste time wondering what sort of clothes she preferred. Was she all about sleek monotones or a colourful statement dresser? Perhaps she made her own clothes, or bought exclusively in vintage shops; both styles intimidate me. That’s madness, right? I run a company with a multimillion-pound turnover, and I’m intimidated by women who wear aqua crimplene day dresses.
I am not myself.
Is this love? Losing yourself? I don’t know. Past partners have never crawled under my skin. Until recently, my big, enduring passion has always been work. This is the first time I’ve been willing to be overwhelmed by a person. I want this.
I can’t focus my attention; I can’t be logical and sensible. Because I don’t know what I’m looking for, I imagine echoes of her in every woman I meet. In every version of her that I conjure, she is beautiful. Show-stoppingly beautiful. And young. Or at least younger than I am, by over a decade. Therefore vibrant in an ephemeral, inimitable way. Of course, Matthew is young too. They matched. He knew her intimately, but I wonder, does he still do the same, constantly scan faces, hoping to recognise her in other women?
A new thought occurs to me that I haven’t had before. Perhaps he sees her in me. It is possible he has a type; maybe that’s why he committed so quickly. That thought alarms me more than all the others. I’m just her, but second best. Less. I am infuriated with my irrationality. I don’t know her, I never did and I never will, so how can I compare myself? Why do I put myself through this?
Still, I asked, ‘Did you remain as in love throughout, all those years you were together?’ I wanted to hear that it had waned, I suppose. That it was hard to maintain the passion.
‘I’ve never stopped,’ he muttered.
‘Well, that’s good,’ I said, not certain it was, at least not for me. ‘It must be a comfort.’
‘The last words I said to her were “I love you, you sexy bitch.”’ He laughed to himself, pleased by the memory.
So yes, he’s scrupulously honest, disarmingly frank, and I will not ask about her pet name. It’s here and this moment that counts. From this point on, to protect myself, I’m only going to ask innocuous questions.
‘Have you ever been to Lyndhurst?’ I say. ‘It’s a beautiful little town, stuffed full of antique shops. Do you like antiquing? I know it’s not everyone’s thing.’
‘I love poking around antique shops,’ he says with glee. ‘Becky loved it too, actually. We used to go all the time. She had a great eye. I’ve missed it. Come on, let’s get cracking.’
As Matthew sings in the shower, I tell myself it’s a great thing to have a shared hobby and that he’s so enthusiastic about doing something I enjoy. It doesn’t matter at all that Becky had a great eye.
And I reconsider what might be defined as an innocuous question in our particular situation.
10
Maybe Becky did have a great eye for antiques. Matthew certainly does not. He seems to be drawn to anything ugly, damaged or dirty. A fact we both find amusing rather than annoying or embarrassing.
‘These are fun,’ he says, pointing at a collection of gut-wrenchingly ugly Toby jugs.
‘They’re absolutely awful,’ I declare with a grin. He shrugs good-naturedly and moves on.
‘But this is rather nice, right?’ He’s landed on an elaborate dragon ornament. It’s supposed to look like a wooden carving but is clearly moulded. ‘What would you say, late eighteen hundreds?’
‘Nineteen eighties reproduction, more like. And hideous.’ I laugh. Matthew puts the dragon back on the shelf and shrugs again.
‘What do I know?’
