Aunties Outing
You’re not wearing that, said Victor, not even turning around. He stood by the hall mirror, straightening his silk, navy blue tiethe expensive one hed bought the previous month for a sum Mary only discovered by accident when she was looking for the fridge receipt. I mean it.
Victor, its the tenth anniversary of your firm. Im your wife.
Exactly. He finally looked at her, and there was something in his gaze that made her catch her breath. Not tenderness. Recognition. She had seen that look before. Years ago. She just never named it. Youre my wife. Thats why Im asking you to stay home.
Why?
He sighed. Slowly, with that particular weariness that meant: youre asking foolish questions, and I have to waste time on you.
Mary. There will be business partners there. Important people. Possibly the press.
So?
You He paused, searching for the word, then found it. Youre an auntie, do you see? Just an ordinary auntie. In that blue dress with the buttons. The women therethey look different.
Mary stood in the kitchen doorway, a faded tea towel bunched in her hands. She had just dried her hands on it. The towel was old, the pattern barely showing. She looked at her husband and tried to make sense of when exactly words like those became normal. When they ceased to require explanation.
Is Emma going with you, then?
He didnt flinch. That was the most frightening part. Not anger. Not confusion. Just a flat gaze.
Emma is my assistant. Shes organising the event.
Victor.
Mary, dont start.
I only asked.
No, you didnt only ask. He pulled his jacket from the peg, shook it out with habitual elegance. Youre hinting. As always. Im tired of your hints.
Mary draped the tea towel over the arm of the chaircarefully, so he wouldnt see her hands trembling.
All right, she said. All right, Victor.
Thats a good girl. He looked at himself in the mirror, satisfied. Where are the children?
Sophies at her friends. Bens at university; hell be back by eight.
Tell him to keep it down when I get in. Ill be late.
The door closed. The only thing left behind was the scent of his aftershaveonce shed liked it; now, it seemed expensive and foreign.
She went back to the kitchen. Put the kettle on. Watched the steam curl up from the spout, and thought of how, twenty-three years ago, shed married a man who looked at her so differently. Hed said he loved her laughter, that it was like a silver bell. Shed blushed at that, once.
The kettle boiled. Mary poured the water over a teabag, watching the dark curls swirl.
Auntie. Hed called her an auntie.
She was fifty-two. Not a hundred. Not eighty. Fifty-two, and she wasnt bad, all things considered. No magazine beauty, but not what hed made her with that word. She had lovely chestnut hair, hardly streaked with grey, because she looked after herself. Skilled hands, too: she could bake a cake, let down a hem, calm a child at three in the morning, or sort the books when he first got tangled up with the numbers at the start of Canterbury Construction and begged her for help.
Who had helped him then? Who sat up with his invoices?
Auntie. Well.
She didnt cry. The tears hovered, pressing at her chest, but they didnt come. Maybe because it wasnt the first talk like this. The first was three years ago, when he first said, You could dress a little better. Shed been hurt. Then got used to it. Even agreed. And here she was, alone in the kitchen, her husband at his anniversary do, with EmmaEmma, who was twenty-eight, and who, she imagined, had neither pies baking nor faded tea towels nor twenty-three years of shared life.
The light was fading outside. A warm May evening, the scent of hawthorn drifting up from the garden. Mary finished her tea, washed the cup, and went to the wardrobe.
In the back, behind the winter coats, hung a dress. Deep claret velvet, bought three years ago in a Marks & Spencer sale and only ever tried on at home. Victor had wrinkled his nose: Where would you wear that? Too bright for your age. Tacky. Shed folded it in a carrier bag, stashed it at the cupboards farthest reach. Almost gave it away. Never did.
She took it out now. Shook itsoft, warm, alive under her hands. She held it to herself and looked in the mirror.
No. Not an auntie.
She heard keys in the hallBen. She listened as he stumbled, kicked off his shoes, threw his coat on the chair instead of hanging it, and headed into the kitchen.
Mum, is there anything to eat?
Burgers in the fridge. Heat them up.
He noticed her with the dress.
What are you doing with that?
Trying it on, she said.
Its nice. He went to rustle up food. Where are you going, then?
Mary hesitated.
Im not sure yet. Nowhere, maybe.
He sat, plate in hand, studying her with that direct, adult gaze that he sometimes had. He was only a first-year at uni, but hed begun walking like he carried an invisible burden.
Dads gone to the do, has he?
Yes.
Alone?
She hung the dress on the chair.
Ben.
Mum, I know. He said it quietly, no anger, just matter-of-fact. Sophie knows too. Weve known for ages.
The tears came, finallylump in her throat, not sobbing. She just breathed, staring at the darkening window.
How? she managed.
Saw them together in a café on Pevensey Street, springtime. He didn’t spot me. At first, I thought maybe business. But no. It was clear.
You didnt tell me.
What would you have done?
What would she have done? Pretended not to know. Like she had, these past three years, noticing little things, convincing herself she imagined it. Women in their fifties fear the trutha chapter all its own.
I dont know, she admitted.
Me neither. He met her eyes. Mum, you look good in that dress, you know. Really.
Mary looked at her sona young man shed once taught to tie his shoelaces and packed sarnies for every morning. Nineteen. Grown up. Seeing more than she might wish.
Thank you, she said.
After supper Mary rang Sophie. She came round at ten, fluttering in, pink backpack, smelling of unfamiliar perfume from someones hugs.
Mum, whats up? Sophie stopped, scanned her mothers face with that sharp precision only fifteen-year-old girls have. Did Dad say something?
Sit down, said Mary. Lets talk.
The three of them sat round the kitchen table with mugs of tea. Mary told themnot everything, but enough. Victors words. The dress. Her suspicions about Emma, which their faces confirmed.
Sophie bit her lip, as she always did when struggling not to cry.
He called you an auntie? she asked at last.
Yes.
Thats She shook her head for the right word. Thats not fair.
No, its not, Mary agreed.
Mum, are you going somewhere? At all?
Mary looked at the dress hanging over the chair.
I dont know yet.
She slept fitfully that night. Lay on her side of the wide bed and thought. About everything. Twenty-three years. All the youth shed put into this home, these children, this man. Shed stopped working when Ben was bornshed been a skilled seamstress at a well-known London atelier, valued by her boss. Then Victor had said, Why work? Ill provide. She believed him. Why not? Back then, he really did provide, and she thought, thats ita good life.
A good life. She rolled onto her side, stared at the dark ceiling.
What could she do now? Sew. Cook. Run a house. Sit at home and be invisible. The last shed mastered especially well.
No. She mustnt think like that. She could sew, and that wasnt little. She had her hands, her mind, her decades of experienceunofficial, perhaps, but she always sewed: for herself, the kids, Mrs Thomas next door, whod always said Marys dresses were better than shop-bought.
Her thoughts circled. She slipped in and out of sleep. At half two, the front door banged. Victord come home. She heard him running bathwater. Eventually, he lay beside her, silent, breathing evenly in minutes.
Mary lay awake for a long time after.
He left early, barely tasting breakfast.
Ill be busy this week, dont wait up.
The door. Silence.
Mary made herself coffee, sat by the window. It was drizzling, the hawthorn leaves sparkled in the courtyard below. She drank slowly, thinking. Calmly, almost coolly. Maybe pain turns into something else once it’s spent. Something solid, clear.
The do was this Friday. It was Tuesday.
Three days.
She picked up her mobile and messaged her friend Janet, whod been their bookkeeper for years before taking a job elsewhere. Theyd kept up, now and then, over coffee. Janet, practical and sharp-eyed, never wore rose-tinted glasses.
Jan, can we meet today?
Instant reply: Certainly. Three at Elm Café?
Mary sent: See you then.
They met in the cosy café two streets away. Janet, in her neat grey blazer and wise, no-nonsense gaze, listened quietly. Only raised her eyebrows at auntie.
So he really said that, Janet murmured.
He did.
And youve known about Emma for a while?
Suspected, yes. Ben confirmed it last night.
Janet spun her mug. Mary. Can I say something, and please dont be cross?
Go on.
I knew. When I still worked at Canterbury Construction. Two years ago. Saw them together a few times. I didnt say then, thought it wasnt my place, that you’d both work it out. Now I see I was wrong. Sorry.
Mary nodded after a pause.
Its all right, Janet. It doesnt matter anymore.
What will you do?
Mary looked up at her friend.
Im going to the do.
Janet stared at her, then nodded.
With the children?
With the children.
You know itll be unpleasant?
I do.
And hell be angry.
I know.
Janet was quiet a moment.
All right. So what do you need?
Mary managed a small smile, her first for two days.
I need help with my hair. I cant do it myself.
Thursday night, Sophie sat at her mothers vanity, carefully brushing her hair. Slowly, with gentle hands reserved for important occasions. Marys hair was thick, shoulder-length, barely streaked with grey from a home tint the night beforeonly to even out the winter dullness.
Mum, arent you scared? Sophie asked.
A little.
Dad will be angry.
Perhaps.
What will you say?
Nothing, Mary said, watching her reflection. Ill just walk in.
Sophie pinned the last strand, stepped back, considering. You look gorgeous. Really, mum. You always do, you just forgot.
Mary turned and hugged her. Tightly, properly. Sophie hesitatedthen hugged back.
The claret dress lay on the bed. Soft, velvety. Mary put it on slowly, zipped the back with Sophies help, then looked in the mirror.
A stranger looked back. No, not stranger. Forgotten. The woman shed been before she started saying yes.
She did her own make-up, sparingly. Enough. Mascara, lipsticka faded terracotta shade shed once loved. Black onyx earrings, a gift from her mother.
Mum, called Ben from the hall. Taxis nearly here.
Im coming.
She took her bagsmall, black, old but good. Pulled on her coat, hands still slightly trembling. She noticed, and deliberately slowed down. Calmly. Just calmly.
Lets go, she said.
The White Swan Hotel was a decent placenot the citys fanciest, but respectable enough. Victor chose it for the status: large room, high ceilings, in-house catering. Mary had only been there once, eight years ago, for someones wedding. She remembered marble floors and a big chandelier.
The taxi stopped. Mary stepped out, stood a moment on the steps, breathing in the warm May air, touched with the scent of lime blossom.
Mum, Ben whispered, were with you.
I know. She took Sophies hand. Lets go.
There were already a few late guests hurrying with name badges. Mary walked steadily. The young man at the desk inquired, Here for the Canterbury Construction event?
Yes, Mary said. Im Victor Montagues wife. These are our children.
He hesitated, then nodded. Second floor, Amber Suite.
Amber Suite was packed. Well-dressed people with glasses of fizz, expensive perfume, loud laughter from near the bar, music humming in the background. Mary paused at the threshold and felt eyes on her. She knew she was an outsider here; some knew about Emma, about Victors life these past years. But no one knew his wife.
Can you see Dad? Sophie asked.
Not yet. Well find him.
Victor was at the far end, nibbling canapés with two men in dark suits. Mary recognised oneGeorge Meredith, a long-time partner, large and grave-eyed. Victor both respected and feared him, Mary always thought, though shed never been sure where the line lay.
Emma was beside Victor.
Mary saw her for the first time, though shed pictured her for months. Young, tall, immaculate in a sleek blue dress, hair always perfect. Beautiful. Mary noted it quietly, without jealousyit was weather, not fate. Pretty girl. Twenty-eight. Her hand lay lightly on Victors armtoo at ease.
Theres Dad, Sophie said, almost steady. With that lady in blue.
Mary walked forward, unhurried. A few people glanced round, stepping aside. She kept her gaze ahead, fixed on Victor by the canapé table.
He noticed her three paces off. His face changed instantlymouth half-open, then set, eyes gone cold.
Mary, he said, very low. What are you doing here?
I came to your company celebration, she said, matching his tone. Ten years. Its special.
George looked between Mary and Victor, then back. Mrs Montague? Well, its been years. You look splendid.
Good evening, George, she replied gently. You too.
Emma slipped a step back. Her hand drifted from Victors sleeve.
Then Sophie, standing a little behind, stepped forwardfifteen, dark-eyed, back straight. She watched Emma with the frankness adults fear in children, because its honest.
Dad, Sophie said, without raising her voice but loud enough nearby people heard, why were you hugging her? Shes not Mum.
Something shifteda hush, as if someone had softened the music. The two men near George exchanged glances. A lady with pearls at the next table turned.
Victor paled. Noticeable even with his tan.
Sophie, he started. Thats businessIll explain
Dad, Im not a child, Sophie said, levelly. Weve known for a long time, Ben and I.
Ben stood beside his sister, silent, hands at his side. He said nothing. Just looked at his father.
George cleared his throat, set down his glass. Victor, he said, the word heavy with meaning, seems youve family matters. Well talk later.
He bowed to Mary, old-fashioned and courteous, then turned away. His companions followed.
Emma murmured, Ill check the catering, and vanished.
Victor and Mary were alone, their children nearby. He stared at her, once shed seen as tirednow she saw it for what it was: uncertainty, not anger. He truly didnt know what move to make.
Mary, he said quietly, do you understand what youve done?
Ive come to your celebration, she answered. Ten years. A milestone.
She took a glass from a nearby tray. Champagne. The bubbles rose in a line.
You could have stayed at homelike I asked.
I could, Mary agreed. But I didnt.
She looked at him, and in that moment something finally fell into place. Not anger or triumphjust clarity. She looked at the man shed cooked and washed for, raised children with, believed inand thought simply: so much time, wasted.
Ill drink to your company, she said, and then Ill leave. The children are tired.
She nodded at them. Come on, she said quietly.
They left, Mary feeling the eyes behind hercurious, sympathetic, judgmental. All sorts. It didnt hurt, not more than what shed already endured.
At the door, Ben slipped her arm through his.
You were brave, he said.
I only showed up, she replied.
You showed up, Ben agreed. Thats brave.
At home, Mary hung up the dress with care, washed up, went to bed. For the first time in weeks, she slept without that sticky half-wakefulness that had become so familiar. Slept deeply and long, till nine.
What happened next came slowly, but as certainly as the coming of spring. Not at once, not the very next day, but over the fortnight after the do. She learned the details in bits: from Janet, from Sophie, from snippets passed through friends.
George Meredith declined to sign the next Canterbury Construction dealnot abruptly, but in the manner of shrewd men, after a short delay, through an intermediary. He politely rang after the party, saying he wasnt quite readyneeded further thought. George, of the old school, valued family as something solid. What hed seen at the party had erased his respect for Victor Montague. Not the affair itselfmen had affairs. But bringing a mistress to a public function rather than his wifeit was a break in the natural order, a disrespect to the home. George couldnt abide it.
When George drifted away, others followed. Business, like reputation, is made over years, lost in a moment. Conversations started elsewhere. The Canterbury Construction board began asking awkward questions about how decisions had lately been made. Some contracts, it transpired, skirted the rules. It was about more than dresses and Emma; one loose thread unpicks another.
Emma left after three weeks. Quietly, no dramaresignation letter, gone. Victor floated round the house for days, unsteady, as if someone had pulled the rug from under him.
One evening, he sat down at the table. Mary set a bowl of soup before him and left for another room. He sat there for a long time; she heard his sighs.
Later, he called her.
Mary. We need to talk.
We do, she agreed, but first tell me: do you want to speak, or to be listened to?
At first, he didnt spot the difference. Then he did, lowering his eyes.
Im sorry, he said.
Mary sat opposite, hands calm on her knees. She looked at him, thinking: too late. Not out of anger. Forgiveness needs something alive between youthered been nothing alive between them for a long time.
All right, she said. I hear you.
It wasnt forgiveness. He knew.
She started the divorce herself, calmly, with a solicitor Janet found. The flat was split. The children stayed with Mary; Victor didnt dispute this, the only thing he didnt contest.
While the divorce creaked on, Mary opened a dressmakers shoptwo rooms, the next street over. Shed thought long and hard about it: a bakery would be simpler in ways, but her hands remembered the needle and the cloth. Her old boss, Mrs Ingram, retired now, responded to her call at once: Mary, you should have done this ten years ago.
It warmed her, a little bittersweet. Ten years ago, she hadnt had it in her. Now, she did.
The first months were tough. Money was tight, clients few, long days, aching back, chalk under her nails. Sophie would drop in after school, doing homework on a corner desk, picking through fabric swatches with a quiet but sure eye for colour she must have got from somewhere. Mary noted it, but didnt push.
Ben struggled. Victor called a few times, suggesting meetings. Ben visited; returned quiet. One evening, he told his mother:
He wants me to understand him.
And do you?
I dont know how you understand someone ashamed of his own wife. Ben stared out the window. But Mum, you were never youre ordinary. Normal. Always normal.
Thank you, son.
I mean it.
He hesitated.
Im having trouble with Holly. My girlfriend.
Mary looked at him.
She says, after all this, she doesnt know what sort of father Id be. Shes scared of repeating it.
Its not your story, Ben.
I know. She doesnt.
Mary paused, picking her words.
Give her time. Let her see. Words wont help; only time.
He nodded, not convinced. The thing with Holly dragged on, and Mary sometimes felt a gentle worry, but kept outchildren need their own space to manage life. Shed learnt that late, but shed learnt.
The shop grew, steadily. A year later, she had regulars. By eighteen months, she took her first wedding dress commissionthe hardest, best-paid work. Mary hired a young assistant, also called Ellie (not Emma), with quick hands and a knack for fabric. They worked well, speaking little, understanding much by the touch of fabric.
Janet sometimes dropped by; theyd drink tea among the patterns and reels, talking as women over fifty do about health, children, what mattered. Once, Janet said:
You know what I like about you? Youre not bitter.
I get cross sometimes, Mary admitted.
No, not bitter. Cross passes. Bitterness destroys.
Mary thought and agreed.
At seventeen, Sophie knew she wanted to study design. She never announced it, demanded nothingjust brought a folder of drawings and laid it before her mother. Mary leafed through slowly. There was something raw yet true in them, with mistakes, but vision.
Its yours, Mary said.
Youre not against it?
No. Its yours. You know that, better than I do.
Sophie smiled, reserved but warm.
Mum, youve changed.
Changed?
You used to ask, What will Dad say? What will people think? Now you dont.
Mary looked at her.
I learnt late, she said.
Not too late, Sophie said, gathering her drawings. Youre all right.
The best words shed heard in years. Better than compliments or praise. Just youre all right from someone who sees you clearly.
She saw Victor rarely. He came for the kids or dropped off things theyd left. He looked differentsometimes keeping up appearances, sometimes not. She heard hed been replaced at Canterbury Construction, now working as a contract manager. It was a downturn. But Mary wasted little thoughtshe had her own life.
The third summer after the divorce was a good one. Warm, long. The shop moved to bigger premises; she had three dressmakers. In the evenings, Mary sat on the little balcony of her new rented flatseparate from the marital home (a hard but necessary step), drinking tea and watching sunsets. Not alwaysoften she was with her workbut sometimes, just sometimes, shed sit idly, and realise something simple: she was content. Not happy in the glossy-magazine sense, but well. Quietly. Weary, but at peace.
That autumn, he came.
She saw him through the shop window, standing by the door, uncertain. She saw hed agednot just years gone, but really aged as men do when confidence drains from them. Slumped shoulders. Suit still good, but a little out of date.
She went out.
Victor, she said. Come in.
They sat in her little meeting roomtwo chairs, a table, dried flowers. She poured him tea.
How are you? he asked.
Well, she said. Busy. The shop is thriving.
Ive heard. He looked at her. Youve done well.
She said nothing, just held her mug with both hands.
Mary. He paused. I need to sayIve been thinking.
Thinking, she repeated, not as a question.
I was wrong. About a lot. I see that now.
Victor.
No, let me finish. You you were a good wife. You kept the home, raised the kids. I never noticed. Or I did, but I thought it was normalthats just the way things are. He trailed off. I was wrong.
Mary looked at himthis older, tired man who was still her Victor in some way. The one shed married, the one whod said auntie, the one whod sat helpless after Emma left. All the same man, she realised.
I hear you, she said.
Ive wondered He stopped. No, silly.
Go on.
I wondered ifno, not starting over, butseeing each other. Talking. Im alone now, Mary. Really alone.
Silence.
Mary put her mug down, glanced at the streetgrey autumn sky, leaves scattered, a bicycle near a lamppost. Then she looked at him.
Victor, she said. Im not angry. Really, Im not. Thats behind me. I regret the yearsnot you as such, but the years, that they were what they were, not what they could have been.
Mary.
Let me finish. Her tone was gentle but firm. Youre not alone. You have the children. They still come to you. You know that. They will always be yours. A pause. But I cant be what you want. I dont even know what you wantcompanionship, familiarity, someone so youre not alone. But I cant.
Why not?
She considerednot for wounding words, but for truth.
Because Ive finally become myself. She said it quietly, not puffed up, just simple truth. And it took too much to get here. I wont go back.
He was silent a long time, staring at his cooling tea. Then nodded, once.
I understand.
I know you do.
The children he began.
Theyll be all right with you, she told him. Thats your job now, not mine. Go to them. Talk. Ben it was hard for him. But hes open, if youre genuine.
Victor stood, tugged at his jacketan old habit she knew by heart.
That dress suits you, he said suddenly.
She looked down. Today, she wore another shed sewn herself last winterdark blue, a simple collar.
Thank you, said Mary.
He left. She heard the bell tinkle as the shop door opened and closed. Then quiet.
Mary sat for a few more minutes. It was peaceful and cool in her meeting roomdried flowers, mugs of tea, sketches at the edge of the table.
Then she stood, rinsed her mug, returned to her desk, and bent over her sketching.
Ellie poked her head round the door.
Mrs Montague, the next clients here.
Yes, Ellie. Please ask her to wait a moment.
Ellie nodded and gently closed the door.
