In-Laws and Outlaws Read online

  “It won’t be, go to sleep.” He clearly wasn’t about to get out of bed but at that moment, as if on cue, the phone ceased ringing.

  “Told you.” Gideon mumbled. Almost as soon as it had ceased to ring however, it began again.

  “Oh for god’s sake,” muttered Gideon as he reluctantly headed down the hall to answer it. A few moments later he was back in the bedroom, the handset clamped to his ear. He didn’t say anything beyond a few uninformative ‘hmms’ and the odd ‘oh dear’ for the next few minutes. Eventually, however, my suspicions as to the identity of the caller were confirmed. “I’ll come over first thing Mum,” he said, “No, I’m not coming now . . . No, I can’t . . . No it’s nothing to do with Eve, I just don’t see how I could make any difference right now . . . you could sleep in another room . . . he could sleep in another room. I’ll see you in the morning. Night.” He clicked the off button on the phone and then looked to check it had really disconnected.

  “What’s happened?” I asked

  “She thinks Dad’s having an affair,” he replied wearily.

  “What!” I squealed. I know lots of men have affairs, but I really wouldn’t have put Malcolm down as one of them, he didn’t seem like the type.

  “She says,” Gideon explained, “that she was uploading some pictures from her digital camera and stumbled across some photos on his computer of some woman in, as she put it, intimate poses.” The mind boggled.

  “But she always says she hates computers.” I pointed out.

  “She may hate them, but that doesn’t mean she can’t use one.” Gideon said.

  “True, but I had always got the impression she couldn’t use one.” I had got this impression from hearing Marjorie berating Malcolm for the hours he spent researching his family’s ancestry on “that bloody computer”. She had gone on to say that she had no idea how to use a computer and no intention of finding out, but perhaps I had misunderstood her meaning.

  “So she knows how to use a computer and you thought she didn’t, and your point is?” Gideon sounded quite exasperated, although whether with me or with his mother I was unsure. My point, I wanted to say, is that there is more to your mother than meets the eye. I was probably being ridiculous, but for some reason I found Marjorie’s sudden computer literacy worrying.

  “I don’t have a point, it was just an observation.” I said. “So she wants you to go over. Right now?”

  “Yes.” Gideon climbed back into bed.

  “And you won’t go now? You want to leave it until tomorrow?” I clarified.

  “Yes,” he confirmed.

  “But we’re getting married tomorrow.”

  “I do know that Eve,” Gideon said rather impatiently. “I’ll be done in plenty of time.”

  “At eleven. In the morning.” I wanted to make sure he was in no doubt about the time.

  “It’ll have blown over by then.”

  “Blown over?” I prompted.

  “Mum and Dad have these sort of bust ups occasionally.”

  “Over extra marital affairs?” I queried.

  “Well, this is a new one, but about something or other. It always blows over. This will too.” Gideon yawned theatrically. “I’m going to sleep, and I suggest you do the same.”

  “I’ll go with you.” I said. I didn’t want Gideon disappearing on the morning of our wedding not to return for hours on end. I recalled the events of my birthday. Had Gideon told Marjorie when we were getting married? I could hardly ask without sounding suspicious. “Does your mother know we’re getting married tomorrow?” I asked. Turns out I couldn’t help myself.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” he snapped. “Now go to sleep.”

  “I was just asking,” I replied huffily. “Night.”

  So, Marjorie had not only ruined my birthday and caused (with some help from my brother admittedly) Gideon and I to have a huge row at Christmas, she had now disrupted the happy ambience of my pre wedding night. What was it with that bloody woman?

  The next morning found the four of us (me, Marjorie, Gideon, and the man of the moment, Malcolm) in one of Marjorie’s many guest bedrooms. A shrine to the nineteen eighties (the room was a riot of pink and white stripes and florals), the setting was rather incongruous given the reason for us being there. But having not been allowed (by Marjorie) to convert any of the guestrooms into a study, it was here that Malcolm’s computer lived.

  As we all stared at the machine, Marjorie was trying, and conspicuously failing, to hold back great sobs of distress. It was a rather theatrical performance, but Gideon seemed to be very impressed by it.

  “How could you do this to me?” she gasped through her sobs, “How could you . . . ?” She stopped, seemingly lost for words, so great was her distress. “What have I done to deserve this?” Marjorie managed to say before another sob shuddered through her body. It was at this point that she grasped my arm and buried her head against my shoulder. With her other arm she groped for Gideon. As she could not see him her arm waved around wildly until it made contact with his sleeve. Her fingers closed over the fabric and she pulled him towards her.

  “I just thank God that I have my family around me at this difficult time.” She raised her head from my shoulder to make this melodramatic statement. “And you, you Malcolm.” She looked accusingly at Malcolm, who had been standing impassively behind us. “How could you risk your family for this . . . this hussy?”

  This seemed an unpleasant way to describe the middle aged woman in the pictures we had been looking at, which comprised some pretty standard issue holiday snaps as far as I could see. They absolutely didn’t fall under the heading of ‘intimate poses’ as described by Marjorie in her phone call of the night before. From the evidence presented so far I couldn’t see quite why Marjorie thought that this woman and Malcolm were having an affair. It turned out, however, that the woman (who I learned was called Janet Temple) had been Malcolm’s secretary many years before. Marjorie had always disliked her and believed that she was intent on stealing Malcolm away from his family. That Janet had been married herself (as I later learnt from Gideon) had done nothing to dissuade Marjorie from the notion that Janet was a potential home wrecker.

  Having exhausted herself with theatrical weeping Marjorie managed, with much help from Gideon, to make it downstairs. Malcolm followed behind silently. Having settled Marjorie at the kitchen table Gideon offered to make some coffee. “I’ll do it,” I said, leaping up and heading for a cupboard in which I was sure I had once caught a glimpse of a cafetiere. “Where do you keep the mugs?”

  Having supplied everyone with a mug of piping hot, very strong coffee I sat down. I had no idea what would happen next. I only hoped whatever it was would happen quickly. It was only half past eight so Gideon and I had plenty of time to get to the Register Office, which was only fifteen minutes’ drive away, by eleven. As long as we got away within the next couple of hours we could still be Mr and Mrs Rowe by lunchtime.

  “I feel utterly betrayed.” Marjorie wailed, clutching one of Gideon’s hands with both of hers. “I can’t believe you could treat me in such a way. I want a divorce.” I had not been expecting that.

  “If that’s what you want I will call my solicitor.” Malcolm responded, equally unexpectedly. “You can stay in this house of course. I will leave as soon as possible.” Marjorie was clearly unprepared for Malcolm’s acquiescence. She had, I suspect, been expecting him to beg for forgiveness. Having failed to get the required response she tried again.

  “If we divorce you will never see your children again!” she announced dramatically. Gideon and I shared a look of disbelief and I had to stifle a laugh.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Malcolm rose from his seat in a fairly dignified fashion, unmoved by Marjorie’s empty threat. “I will begin proceedings right now, if you don’t mind.” I was disappointed to see that he hadn’t even tried my coffee as I had been hoping that it might wean him away from his awful machine. Marjorie, however, was not about t
o take this lying down and launched a counter attack.

  “Is that all our marriage means to you?” Marjorie narrowed her eyes as she hissed the words through gritted teeth. “You’re prepared to throw forty years away, just like that. How could you Malcolm?”

  “It was you, Marjorie, that asked me for a divorce, not I that initiated this.” Malcolm replied.

  “No, but it was you that initiated an affair into this house.” Even I knew that this wasn’t an appropriate use of the word initiate, but I don’t suppose Marjorie cared as she proceeded to fling insults, threats, and insinuations at Malcolm. He was a bad father, he was incapable of displaying emotion, he had intimacy issues arising from having been evacuated as a child. Marjorie, calling on years of watching daytime TV and reading women’s magazines, chose to diagnose him with attachment disorder (although I’m sure she had no idea what this meant, I certainly didn’t), and claimed that he confused sex with affection (which was much more information than I wished to know about the inner workings of their marriage). Malcolm had, she claimed, offered her no support with the children, he didn’t include her in his hobbies and activities, and treated her as little better than a cook and housekeeper. At one point she even thrust her diamond ring in his face.

  “I even had to buy my own ring,” she screeched. “You,” she went on, all the while stroking the huge rock lovingly, “didn’t even think I was worth a decent diamond. I had to use my own money to get myself a ring I wasn’t ashamed of.” And all the while Malcolm simply stood stock still, not a flicker of emotion on his face.

  There was much more of this kind of stuff, but I will stop there, except to say that what she seemed most put out by was his willingness to be divorced by her. His protestations that he was just trying to give her what she wanted (one of the few things he did say while she ranged far and wide over his faults) had no effect. At one point I actually feared she was going to box his ears.

  While I desperately wanted this whole thing wrapped up as quickly as possible, it was an enthralling spectacle. I looked at the clock from time to time and found that it was moving at a preternaturally fast rate. In no time at all it was ten o’clock and I began to get a bit panicky. I tried to catch Gideon’s eye but he was focussed on mediating, to no avail, between his parents. Eventually, at around ten thirty, Malcolm announced that, as nothing was being resolved, he was going out to get some fresh air. This, I thought, was our opportunity to get away.

  “Perhaps,” I said, “this would be a good time for us to make a move as well?” I looked questioningly at Gideon.

  “Yes,” he said, “perhaps we should go. Give you two some space.”

  “Noooo!” Marjorie wailed. “You can’t leave me, not now!” Impassioned though this request was, I noticed that Marjorie’s eyes, like mine a few moments before, were fixed on the kitchen clock. I gave Gideon a hard stare. He shrugged hopelessly in response. We had no option but to stay.

  “So she didn’t know that you were getting married that day?” Claire and I were having lunch at a French restaurant in Sloane Square. I was paying as an apology for making her wait for over an hour and a half at the Register Office with Bob. I hadn’t been able to call her as I’d left my phone at home that day. Bob was also uncontactable as he doesn’t have a phone (he thinks they give you cancer). It wouldn’t have been so bad if Claire could have just read the book she’d brought with her, but Bob was determined to engage her in conversation. He doesn’t have a very wide range of interests but he does know a lot about the few things in which he is interested. An hour and a half on the propagation of orchids would be long enough for even the most committed orchid lover and was about eighty five minutes too long for Claire, so an expensive lunch was the least I could do.

  “Not according to Gideon.” I replied through a mouthful of the cheapest salad on the menu.

  “And you asked him directly?” Claire fixed me with a penetrating look.

  “Not exactly. I sort of talked around the issue. He thinks his mother is, and I quote, ‘an amazing woman’ so it’s a bit difficult to come out and accuse her of engineering the whole thing.”

  “And what exactly makes you think that she engineered it?” Claire asked while cracking a lobster claw with evident relish.

  “The first thing” I said, holding up an index finger, “is that at twelve, on the dot, Marjorie stopped crying. She had suddenly remembered that she had a lunch date she didn’t want to miss. A lunch date!” I added for emphasis. “The second,” I held up a second finger, “is that she then said that she shouldn’t have involved us, and that she and Malcolm would sort it out between themselves. And the third is that the whole thing has been forgotten, and she and Malcolm are completely back to normal.” I waved my three fingers at Claire, who didn’t immediately respond. She was too busy dipping some lobster meat into melted butter before popping the whole delicious buttery mess into her mouth.

  “This is very good,” she said once she could speak, “you have no idea! And this woman, she was Malcolm’s secretary?”

  “Yes, but years ago.” I explained. “He had just come across her on Facebook. There was no more to it than that.”

  “So you really don’t know if Marjorie knew about your wedding and concocted the whole thing or if it was just an awful coincidence?” Claire asked.

  “No I don’t. But after what happened on my birthday . . .”

  “But she has been perfectly pleasant to you, hasn’t she?” Claire interrupted.

  “Well, yes, I suppose so, but she’s just not a very easy person to be around, at least I don’t think so, and she’s certainly not amazing.” I stabbed at the last of my salad and looked longingly at Claire’s lobster. “And she might have slipped oats into my food on Burns’ Night.” I muttered, knowing this wouldn’t impress Claire one little bit, and I was right.

  “Yes,” said Claire, “she might have. Or then again, she might not. There must have been oats everywhere, it was Burns’ Night for heaven’s sake. You,” she pointed her fork at me, “have a rather idealised view of what mothers should be like. You lost your mother when you were very young and so she never had the chance to disappoint you.”

  “Why do you suppose she would have disappointed me?” I replied, somewhat affronted.

  “Parents invariably disappoint their children,” Claire went on, “if they live long enough. How can anyone hope to live up to the ideal of perfection that society builds around the notion of parenthood? And how can any woman hope to retain the unquestioning love of her children, especially once they reach puberty? I have teenaged children, believe me, I speak from bitter experience.”

  “So you think I’m suspicious of Marjorie because I have mother issues, not because she’s trying to ruin my life?”

  “Occam’s razor,” said Claire. “It means . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “I know all about Occam and his bloody razor. It’s far more likely that there’s something wrong with me than that Marjorie is trying to ruin my life. Thanks for that.”

  “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you, only that you may be seeing Marjorie’s behaviour through your own psychological filter. Gideon seems to think she’s a perfectly satisfactory mother. Oh yes please.” The last remark was directed to the waitress who had asked if we wanted to see the dessert menu. Claire was clearly determined to extract the maximum pleasure from having had to endure Bob’s company for so long, and I can’t say I blame her.

  “Gideon thinks she’s Mother Theresa and the Virgin Mary rolled into one.” I said, having rejected dessert on the basis that there was nothing for less than a tenner.

  “That does sound a little unrealistic, I must admit. Do you have any idea why Gideon is so enamoured of his mother?” Claire asked.

  “None, I’m afraid, none at all.” I replied.

  “It is odd, I will grant you that. I mean it’s not as if she is very good company, from what you say. I wonder if there is something in their shared history that might
shed light on the attachment. Ooh,” Claire said, eyeing the dessert menu, “it all looks so good!” she cooed before going on to order the most expensive pudding the place had to offer.

  “Yes, I suppose it does,” I replied, “I suppose it bloody well does.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “I’m an actress.” I said. I’m not, but I have worked as an extra. Sophie was an under housemaid in a couple of episodes of Downton Abbey and got me a gig as one of the villagers you used to see all the time walking briskly in the background as if on a mission of great importance. It was good money but it did get pretty boring so I popped my iPod in my pocket, stuck it on shuffle, and ran some earphones up inside my sleeve. Everything was going swimmingly until someone noticed me clearly indicating that if he liked it he should have put a ring on it. An investigation by the director revealed that I could also be seen walking like an Egyptian and singing and, more importantly, dancing in the rain in the background of some pretty serious drama. They had to reshoot a whole week’s exterior shots on account of it, so that was the end of my career in showbusiness.

  I was responding to an enquiry from, of all people, Marjorie’s identical twin sister Meg. I was sitting in a cafe on the King’s Road not far from where I had just paid an arm and leg for Claire’s lobster lunch watching Meg tuck into her lunch, for which I was also paying. She had stopped, her fork halfway to her lips, to ask what I did for a living.

  It had been as Claire and I were saying our goodbyes that I had seen a familiar figure coming out of the doors of Peter Jones.

  “Got to go Claire. Great advice as ever. Bye.” I said as I headed off in hot pursuit of the woman I was quite certain was the mysterious Meg. Having heard such differing accounts of her I was intrigued to find out for myself what Marjorie’s doppelganger was like. Was she lovely, lively Aunt Meg, or a depressive recluse? Now was my chance to find out.

  Not wishing to startle her unnecessarily, I followed Meg from a distance as she headed off briskly down the King’s Road. It was a busy day and I had to keep my wits about me. Following people is much harder than one might think, a moment’s inattention and one’s target is gone. Fortunately I have some experience in this field, having worked for a private detective called (or so he claimed) Phillipe Merlot on and off for a number of years. Mostly it had been very boring stuff, but sometimes there was something juicier that involved following someone. It’s not rocket science (although rocket science isn’t actually that hard according to Claire, who used to be a nuclear physicist and rather looks down on rocket scientists, or ‘one shot jockeys’ she calls them) but you do have to be constantly vigilant while ensuring that your target doesn’t become aware of your presence. Having kept my eyes firmly fixed on Meg for almost the entire length of the King’s Road I decided the best way to approach her was to, quite literally, bump into her. Choosing my moment carefully, I waited until she seemed about to make a left turn and knocked her shoulder with my arm.