He would drive on into the town, find an off-licence, have his own little private party in some secluded spot.
On the edge of the town he came to a vast supermarket with a sign that mentioned among the varied delights within a section devoted to wines and spirits. He parked the car and went inside. He bought a nice little selection of conveniently-sized bottles. On his way out again he paused and looked round the long aisles, at the female assistants, the young housewives, the adolescent girls, trying to visualize himself striking up an acquaintance with such fashionably dressed and coiffured creatures, progressing through the ritual stages of intimacy to marriage and children.
It would take months, years possibly. And he didn’t have the time to wait. It would take persistence and effort, charm and gaiety, energy and ardour.
And I don’t have a single damned ounce to spare of any of those highly desirable qualities, he told himself, almost with exuberance, clutching to his chest the bottles in their discreet paper sack.
It’s definitely going to have to be Celia, he told himself yet again as he crossed the car park. The idea seemed more tolerable now. He drove back towards the open country, found a pleasant spot in a lane beneath overhanging trees and opened the first of his bottles. After ten minutes the idea of marrying Celia appeared a good deal more tolerable, after twenty he became greatly pleased with it.
The whole thing would be settled by the time he was summoned to his next interview. He saw himself facing another quartet of shrewd-eyed men. He would be alert and confident. ‘My wife and I reached a civilized agreement’, he was saying in that pleasing vision. ‘A divorce by consent. No recriminations, by far the best way. It’s going through any day now. I shall be marrying again very soon, a sensible, competent woman—’
He frowned, took another swig at his bottle and rephrased that. ‘A most charming woman, highly suitable in every way. And a successful businesswoman into the bargain. A great asset. Yes, certainly she would come along to be introduced.’ She most certainly would, he thought, she’d leap at the chance. ‘And she’d resign her post at Sugdens, no question about that.’ No question at all, he echoed, she’d be penning her resignation before he got the marriage proposal out of his mouth.
The bottle was now empty. I’ll phone Alison before I start on another, he thought. I’ll tell her what I’ve decided. He would go along to see his solicitor in the morning of course – and he’d get round to mentioning the whole thing to Celia at some time or other, no immediate rush about that – but just at this moment he felt a strong impulse to say it all to Alison. Burn his boats, get it over and done with. As he set the car in motion and drove along looking for a phone kiosk he felt light-headed, almost happy.
Alison was drinking a cup of tea when he rang. She had managed to snatch a few minutes’ peace, was sitting at her desk cradling the cup in her hands.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ Andrew said in a quick voice, high and accusatory. ‘I want a divorce. On the two-year-by-agreement principle. I take it you’ve no objection. I expect you’re bloody pleased.’
He’d been drinking, Alison noted. ‘How did the interview go?’ she asked. ‘Am I to congratulate you?’
‘No bloody good,’ he said. ‘It was the marriage set-up that did for me. They didn’t like it, they didn’t like it one little bit. They like things to be one way or the other. And come to that,’ he added almost in a shout, ‘so do I. I’ve had enough of this neither-fish-nor-flesh nonsense. They wanted me to produce a wife, a one hundred per cent wife, dinner parties, functions, business trips, the lot.’
He’d want a pretty quick divorce, she thought. Tie the whole thing up at the solicitors’ right away, file the petition pronto, not much delay in that sort of case these days. He’d want to be able to marry Celia with the speed of light, produce her like a rabbit from a hat the next time he was asked.
‘I’m sorry about the job,’ she said.
‘Ah well.’ His tone was faintly mollified. ‘Better luck next time. I’ll get along to my solicitor tomorrow morning, get him cracking with the divorce. No point in hanging about.’
‘Divorce,’ she echoed on a reflective note. ‘I’m not so sure I really want one.’
He was brought up short, she heard him gasp.
‘You mean – you’re considering – you mean – you might come back to me?’ By God, he wished she’d told him that when he’d phoned her earlier. He felt a wild leap of his heart, he could have sung out with joy. What did the lousy interview matter now? Plenty of better jobs. He grinned at his image in the little mirror on the kiosk wall.
‘We’ll meet,’ he said with persuasive force. ‘We’ll talk things over. Get it all settled. I’ll come over to Fairview this evening.’
‘Don’t get the wrong idea,’ Alison said. ‘I’m not committing myself to anything at this stage. You must understand that.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said impatiently. ‘Of course I understand. Very natural.’ She couldn’t be expected to climb down from her high horse all in an instant, she’d have her pride to consider.
‘All I’m saying just now,’ she added, ‘is that I’m not sure I want a divorce. I’d need to think about it very carefully.’
‘We could make a fresh start,’ he said with joyful energy. ‘There are great jobs going, terrific salaries. I could tackle anything if you came back. I’d give you anything you want.’ Maybe he hadn’t been the most generous husband in the world but he’d learned his lesson, he’d shower her with luxuries. ‘We must meet,’ he said again. ‘I can tell you anything you want to know, listen to anything you’ve got to say.’
‘Not just yet,’ she said. ‘I mustn’t be rushed. Be fair, you have rather sprung this on me.’ Marriage hadn’t taken long to turn him from a moderately open-handed lover into a tight-fisted husband – probably, she judged now, his natural attitude. The idea of reunion seemed likely to release his purse strings once more.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Of course you must take what time you need.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘I must ring off. I have an appointment.’
‘Oh – yes – certainly,’ he said at once. He felt great, marvellous, as he put down the receiver. He left the kiosk, went back to the car, shoved the bottles aside in a rush of disgust. He didn’t need any booze now, he was on top of the world, reborn.
He set the car in motion, headed towards home. His brain was full of plans, moves, applications, interviews, in a fierce resurgence of hope.
SHORTLY AFTER half past five Alison put on her coat. The sky had grown leaden, it promised to be a chilly evening. As she opened her office door she saw Hazel Ratcliff going briskly by with a handful of papers. Hazel paused and gave her a sharp look.
‘You won’t forget about the meeting, Mrs Rolt?’
‘Of course not,’ Alison said. ‘Half past seven, I’ll be there.’
Hazel’s features relaxed slightly. ‘I hope it doesn’t rain,’ she said in a more affable tone. ‘But it seems as if it’s going to.’
‘You’ll have your work cut out to get home and back again for half past seven,’ Alison said.
‘I shan’t even try,’ Hazel said with energy. ‘It would be impossible with the buses as they are now.’ She jerked her head in the direction of her own room. ‘I’ve brought extra sandwiches. I’ll stay on here