Chapter 29
Staring at her reflection, Opal studied each detail of her outfit, trying to identify the culprit.
Maybe it was the burgundy peep-toe shoes, or the oversized taffeta rosette that sat on her left hip.
Or perhaps the costume-sized ruby nestled in the middle of her collarbones was to blame.
Opal had never been sure that she looked good in red, but this dress, like so many other things she’d taken to wearing recently, was something that Martin had ‘never liked her in’ and so it was serving a purpose beyond just ‘suiting her’.
She removed the large gold cuff bracelet from her left wrist and then swapped out her earrings.
‘Better,’ she muttered to herself as she twisted from side to side, examining herself from every angle.
If she were being honest with herself, obsessing over this ensemble was mostly a way to avoid thinking too much about the night that lay ahead.
It was the last weekend in June, which meant it was the day of the Fairfax annual summer gala.
Ostensibly Opal threw this party every year to raise money for one good cause or another, but in recent years it had begun to feel more like some sort of campaigning event.
And she had become less and less sure exactly what she was rallying for.
The perception of her marriage? Her status? Her good name?
She had tried to cancel it this time around, all the way back in May before Martin had jetted off to Australia, but he had insisted. She’d found it strange, as he usually moaned intolerably in the lead-up to the evening, and then even more intolerably during the cleanup.
She supposed that in the years they’d been throwing the party, ever since they’d lost Emma, it had become a bit of a highlight in the local social calendar.
She could only assume that Martin enjoyed the clout that hosting the ‘ball of the season’ reflected onto him.
All the more galling then when he’d come home, fucked his teenage mistress and then promptly forgotten when it was actually happening.
The only person Opal cared about who really seemed to enjoy this night, to look forward to it even, was Debbie, and she hadn’t heard from her all week. Opal took a pin out of her hair, spinning a single tress between her fingers and then repositioning it in almost the exact same place.
She was anxious. It had been eerie not hearing from Debbie.
Without her check-ins, Opal realised, the phone hardly rang.
It got to a point where Opal had picked up the receiver, and then had to flick through her contact book to find the number for next door, so seldom was she the one calling.
Debbie’s husband, Paul, had answered and his reply had sounded so scripted, it took a moment for Opal to work out whether it was the answering machine: ‘Deborah is not free to come to the phone right now. Would you like me to take a message, Pol?’
‘I just wanted to know if she … if the pair of you would be coming to the gala tomorrow? I know she must be very busy. It’s only that she usually helps me with the set-up and I haven’t heard from her in a few days …’
There had been slightly too long a pause on Paul’s end of the line. Opal imagined him covering the receiver with his large hands and straining to hear the instructions being levelled at him from another room.
‘Yes, she has been very busy but we do intend to come …’ Another pause, and the faintest whisper of another disembodied order. ‘And am I right in remembering that Agnes is also invited?’
Opal’s stomach dropped. ‘Yes of course!’ Her voice was shrill, and, she thought, unconvincing, but Paul seemed relieved.
He let out a deep breath. ‘Great, great, I thought that was the case. I think Debbie was worried …’ He trailed off. By this point Opal was sure that Paul was speaking under duress. She wished she could speak to her friend directly.
‘I’m waffling, sorry, Pol. Yes we’ll be there, and so will Agnes, in all our finery!’ Opal wondered if Martin would do for her what Paul was doing for Debbie. She suspected he would tell her not to get so het up about a little Tory wife drama, that it was only women’s business after all.
‘No worries at all, Paul. I look forward to seeing you all there, and …’ Opal swallowed, surprised by the pang of sadness that caught in her voice ‘… send Debbie my love.’
‘Will do, thanks for calling, Pol.’ Paul had hung up then, but Opal had sat on the chaise in the hallway cradling the receiver to her ear long after the line went dead.
At least one aspect of the evening would satiate her morbid curiosity about the affair, and that would be seeing Agnes and Martin interact in front of her. It was a moment she had been dreading for so long but now that it was almost upon her she found it a perversely exciting prospect.
Downstairs in the hall, preparations were well underway. It was only just past lunchtime but guests were invited to arrive from three onwards for canapés and drinks on the lawn, so Opal was keen to get this outfit sorted.
No cuff, and a pale pink shawl draped over her shoulders softened the whole look.
She touched up the bright red lipstick she was wearing, and a flash of an old memory came into her mind.
It was a good few years into their time in Marylebone.
They had been trying for a year or so and Martin had taken her to their favourite Italian, just off Covent Garden.
As the waiter walked away from their candlelit table with their order, Martin cocked his head to the side and frowned lightly.
‘What’s wrong?’ she’d asked playfully. A heaviness had plagued their relationship ever since it had become obvious that their pregnancy would not be effortless, but Opal was doing her best to counteract it with plenty of good cheer.
Her voice seemed to summon him back from somewhere and into the room.
He shook his head dismissively at first and then leant back.
‘You never wear lipstick anymore,’ he’d noted.
She had giggled self-consciously, embarrassed by the justification she was about to give. ‘It’s because I want to be able to kiss you whenever I want.’
She hadn’t been able to maintain eye contact as she confessed and he had leant across the table slowly, reaching for her chin, taking it between his fingertips and tilting her gaze up to meet his.
She could remember his smile, soft and the tiniest bit sad, like he was touched by her words.
The room had seemed to cocoon them in a time-standing-still kind of moment, and Opal remembered thinking how warm his eyes looked.
In that light, they were no longer icy, but rather, misty.
‘In that case, I don’t think you should ever wear lipstick again,’ he’d said. And she hadn’t ever again, until they moved to Fairfax.
As she blotted a tissue against the scarlet, she thought about the sex they’d had that night.
She couldn’t remember any specifics, but she knew she’d moaned louder than she usually did, that his hands had felt hotter on her skin, and his lips softer on her neck.
In the morning she had snuck out of bed and down to the bakery.
In the queue she’d excited herself with the thought of how strongly she smelled of him.
She’d wondered if anyone else could smell it.
And then by the time she got back, he was on the phone with a colleague, perched on the edge of the bed and his eyes once again searching for that faraway somewhere.
This time when she called for him with a hand on back and a kiss on cheek, he didn’t come.
He gestured for her to leave him to his call.
Opal wondered how many times that scene might have played out in that flat since, but with Agnes.
Or maybe she didn’t even bother to try and get his attention.
Maybe someone like Agnes could lie next to a man who was ignoring her and know that it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with how desirable she was.
Because it was undeniable. Instead she might pity him for having to interrupt his rapture of her pert body for something as boring as a business call.
Opal could only hope that they wouldn’t subject her to the embarrassment of turning up together.