Homage To Emma

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

Where would I spend the night? That was my most dominating thought.

I couldn’t just dump myself on Mary because she shared her apartment with Eleanor. I thought of various friends but didn’t want them to know my business. It would need to be some cheap hotel or boarding house, possibly a pub, because I was going to have to be very careful with money.

I had never seen Kirsty so furious, utterly beside herself, screaming, spitting, scratching. I left under a barrage of flailing arms and kicking feet. Yes, literally. I looked at the bruises afterwards, all down my arms and my shins. I had no choice but to retreat just as I was- no chance to take anything with me, let alone pack a suitcase or even the proverbial toothbrush.

I had the car, of course, but as I got into the driver’s seat, Kirsty took her keys and gouged them into the paintwork across the bonnet and along the sides. I was so flustered fumbling with my own keys I gave her enough time to do real damage.

The last thing I remember was her face, features all distorted, hatred in her eyes, screaming,’ Get out! Get out!’ over and over again. I saw her mouth still opening and closing like some demented goldfish when I was at the end of the drive about to turn into the road though I could no longer hear the venomous words.

It was what you might call an ignominious exit and to think it was my own house, the one I paid the mortgage on. But I was the guilty party and the convention is the guilty party is the one to leave. The wife ‘throws the bastard out’ and public opinion backs her.

No sympathy for ‘love rats.’ A case of the rat leaving the sinking ship but in my case not by choice. I was also the rock on which the ship foundered.

I drove around aimlessly as the light faded, my mind racing, cursing my ill luck, thinking of both women, Kirsty and Mary, wondering whether to stop and use my mobile to ring one or both of them, when I caught sight of an illuminated ‘vacancies’ sign in the window of a house.

I was oblivious of where I was but when I slowed down and looked properly the house was in a pleasant enough street, actually called a crescent; it looked to be post-war 1950s vintage with red tiles above the front windows and lots of pebbledash. Postage stamp garden at the front behind a privet hedge, adjoining garage, brass knocker in the shape of Durham Cathedral’s sanctuary knocker. I used it to rap twice on the door. Sanctuary in suburbia was exactly what I was seeking if only on a very temporary basis.

Kirsty had found one of Mary’s emails but denied she’d been snooping on my laptop; something about her machine wasn’t working and she wanted to use the Internet to look for weekend breaks. Mary’s message left no doubt that our relationship was intimate so trying to pass her off as just a colleague with whom I got on particularly well wasn’t really an option. Anyway, Kirsty knew who Mary was having met her a couple of times at concerts and things. Mary’s one of the office staff at my school. I’m a teacher. I’m only twenty six and admit I strayed very early in our marriage. The answer to Kirsty’s screamed question, ‘how long have you being screwing her?’ was nearly three years.

I didn’t really see Emma when she came to the door, not properly that is. I was dimly aware of a mature woman with rather hard features as she stood at the open door, arms folded like a postcard landlady. When I agreed to her price I was allowed to step over her threshold. I didn’t have any energy to haggle and the cost of her room per night along with breakfast seemed reasonable.

I told her I wouldn’t be staying long.

I didn’t really take in what the bedroom was like either to be honest beyond a vague feeling that it looked quite comfortable and certainly clean. There was nothing to offend my middle class sensibilities. Emma (she said I should use her first name) was throwing open cupboards and a wardrobe and talking about storage space for when I brought my things and extra blankets if I was cold and even a spare electric fire, but I was nodding politely rather than listening.

And that was how we first met. How Martin met Emma. Em-ma.

When I was left alone in the room I phoned Mary and told her what had happened.

‘She threw you out?’

She said it as if it was something you wouldn’t do to a dog even if it had defecated copiously on the carpet and eaten your cat, utter incredulity in her voice. Even when I explained Kirsty had found one of Mary’s very own emails and reminded her of its contents (there was something about finding it hard to wait for our next shag) she spoke as if it was something a reasonable wife might easily overlook. It dawned on me that Mary was worried I was going to come round and deposit myself on her. There had been times when we’d talked about living together. Mary always said I’d never leave Kirsty.

‘Can we meet?’ I asked Mary.

‘Now?’

‘Just to talk. I feel a bit shell shocked.’

‘It’s awkward. We’ve arranged to go out for a meal. We’re just getting ready.’ She was referring to Eleanor. ‘I’ll see you at school tomorrow. I’m sorry you’re having a bad time. How did she find my email?’

‘She was using my laptop.’

‘Don’t you have your own password?’

‘She knows it.’

‘Martin,’ she said in that tone of voice that makes me feel like a small boy being reprimanded. I always felt Mary would have better classroom discipline than a lot of the teachers.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Stupid of me.’

‘I can’t remember what I said. Was it a filthy one?’

It wasn’t very encouraging that Mary couldn’t even remember the contents of the email in question.

‘Not especially,’ I said.

‘Couldn’t you have made up some story?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. You’re the English teacher. Something creative.’

‘To account for the fact that you talked about our next f**k?’

‘Did I say that? s**t! Sorry, Martin.’

‘I enjoyed reading it at the time.’

‘Look, I’ll have to get my skates on. Eleanor’s looking impatient.’

‘Can we find time to talk tomorrow?

‘Hope so, darling. Bye.’

I sat on the bed wondering what to do next. Should I ring Kirsty and ask if I could come back so we could discuss things more rationally? What did I expect to gain from that? I think I just wanted to buy time to give me a chance to think.

At that point Emma knocked on the door and entered with a beaker of tea.

‘I thought you might like this. You looked pretty stressed when you came to the door.’

‘That’s very kind, I said.

‘We’re usually suspicious of people who arrive without luggage, Mr. Groves.’ She sat on the chair by the window.

‘Please call me Martin,’ I said.

‘So, Martin. What happened?’ She seemed very direct. It was as if she felt entitled to an explanation and in a way I suppose she was.

I should have replied with equal frankness instead of pussyfooting.

‘Bit of a domestic crisis,’ I said foolishly.

‘She threw you out.’

‘We had an argument but I’m sure we can patch it up.’

‘You’ve been playing away from home and your wife found out.’ Again the inflexion was such that it was somewhere between a statement and a question, if that makes sense.

‘You’re very perceptive,’ I said.

‘It’s pretty obvious and I know what men are like.’

She gave me a very searching look.

‘Yes,’ I said lamely. There was something disturbing about her directness. It was disconcerting but not offensive in the way plain rudeness would be.

‘Will she let you back in to collect your clothes?’

‘It may not come to that,’ I said. ‘Anyway I’ve still got my key.’

‘What do you do for a living? I’d say you were a professional person.’

‘I’m a teacher.’

‘Just as I thought.’

‘How did you know?’ This time I managed to raise a smile.

‘The way you talk and the way you dress. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘When you take in lodgers you get to recognise different types.’

I noticed she said lodgers rather than paying guests or something equally genteel. ‘I expect you teach older kids. I don’t see you as a Primary School teacher.’

‘Right again.’

‘What’s your subject?’

‘English.’

‘Never my strong point. I wasted my time at school.’

‘What was your best subject?’

‘History, mainly because I liked the teacher.’

‘Liking your teacher makes a big difference.’

‘Bring your cup down when you’ve finished,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen. You might want a look round.’

Some minutes later I joined her and placed the mug on the sink side.

‘Perhaps you’d like to wash your cup,’ she said.

In obedience I leaned across her to use the water she already had in the sink and unintentionally my hand brushed against her t**s.

‘I suppose you’ll be seeing your girlfriend tonight?’

‘She’s going out with a friend.’

‘That must piss you off on your first night of freedom.’ There was sharpness in her tone. ‘So obviously it wasn’t planned. You left on the spur of the moment.’

I felt myself blushing.

‘How did your wife discover you were cheating?’

‘She found an email.’

Somehow I felt I had to reply to these questions; telling her, or even hinting, that she should mind her own business didn’t seem like an option.

‘My husband just walked out,’ she said, turning her head to look at me, her arms still in the washing up water.

‘It happened to you? I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘Only a month ago,’ she answered.

‘So it was a complete shock?’

‘Totally out of the blue. He was seeing this b***h of a barmaid who worked at the pub he visited every night. Spent more time with her than with me.’

‘I’m sorry if I’ve brought it all back.’

‘Just don’t expect me to have any sympathy,’ she said with the same sharpness.

‘Would you rather I didn’t have the room?’

‘You can stay. I don’t really miss the bastard. Better off without him.’

‘My wife probably feels the same. She calls me a waste of space.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Kirsty.’

‘Where do you live?’

I told her my address and explained where it was in relation to her house.

‘You need to write it in the signing in book as your permanent address.’

‘Yes, Emma.’ I said and realised I sounded like one of my more obedient pupils, not that many fell into that category. Three bags full Emma.

‘Do you cook?’

‘I do a bit.’

‘If you’re staying in tonight perhaps you’d like to show me what you can do or are you going home to discuss things with Kirsty?’

‘I’m not sure. I might phone her first to see what mood she’s in.’

‘There’s no way I’d have Malcolm back even if he grovelled.’

‘You wouldn’t?’

‘Not on your life. If he thinks he can come back here with his tail between his legs expecting me to forgive him he’s got another thing coming. He’s made his bed with the b***h. And she’ll soon get sick of him.’

‘Do you think most women would think like that?’

‘Those with any sense. You get the odd one who’s prepared to be a doormat. If she’s got any sense, Kirsty will change the locks like I’ve done.’

Emma pushed a tea towel into my hands and I started drying the pile of dishes in the rack.

‘I know my place,’ I said venturing a joke.

‘I hope you do,’ she replied without a smile. ‘Let me know what your plans are. If you’re not going home I’d like to sample your cooking. They say men make the best chefs. We both have to eat so may as well eat together.’

She peeled off her yellow washing up gloves and dried her hands on a blue kitchen towel.

‘I’m going for a nice long soak,’ she announced. ‘Give me a shout when you’ve phoned Kirsty so I’ll know what’s happening. If you look in the vegetable rack you’ll see potatoes, carrots and parsnips. There’s cold beef and salad stuff in the fridge so there’s not a lot to do.’

I’d expected to be left to my own devices and had contemplated fast food from some nearby takeaway but perhaps Emma wanted me to feel accepted. Obviously she had a cheek ordering me about like she did but at least she knew what she wanted and left no room for doubt. She gave her orders in a manner that left no scope for contradiction. Perhaps it was out of kindness, to keep my mind occupied, yet she hadn’t sounded in the least sympathetic to my situation. When she asked me to cook it was virtually an instruction; I felt a slight tingle in my loins; there is something stimulating about being given orders by strong women though I guess lots of men wouldn’t think like that.

I sat on a kitchen stool and brought up Kirsty’s number on my mobile.

When I got the answering service I didn’t know what to say and terminated the call. It seemed likely she would block my calls so we’d get little chance to talk things over in a calmer fashion.

I went up the stairs and heard Emma splashing in the bath.

‘I can’t get through to Kirsty,’ I called.

‘Well, rattle those pots and pans,’ she shouted back. ‘Have the meal ready in an hour.’