Consequences

“What about ‘Consequences’ darling? That’s something we could play with the children.”

Maggie looked up dozily from her book and tried to focus on her husband’s voice.

“You know, ‘Consequences’? We used to play it at home when I was a child.”

“Um. Yes…”

Maggie let out a deep sigh and turned her gaze towards the window. The ‘pitter-patter’ of the rain had intensified to a ‘plop-plop’ and the threatening, leaden skies showed no sign of moving on.

This was their summer holiday. Their ‘get away from it all’ trip that Neil had spent so long planning and organising. No TV, no computer, no internet, no telephone (except for emergencies). Just the four of them, deep in the heart of Tuscany. Lazy days spent by the pool or walking in the sublime countryside; occasionally exploring the crumbling charm of a nearby hill town or sampling the produce of a local vineyard. The only thing Neil hadn’t planned for was a possible variation in the weather and the inevitable boredom that confinement in their 18th century cottage might induce.

Maggie now looked at Neil, sitting on the other side of the room at the small dining table flanked by their two mid-teenage daughters. About to embark on yet another game of Elimination Whist, Neil was clearly becoming desperate to find an alternative diversion and avoid his daughters’ favourite mantra of “I’m bored. What can we do now?” which had punctuated this very long day.

“I think the children would enjoy Consequences, don’t you, darling?”, pleaded Neil.

“It sounds boring to me”, piped up Eleanor.

“You can’t say that, we don’t know what it is yet, stupid!” retorted her older sister, giving Eleanor a sly kick under the table. “Tell us, Mum.”

Maggie struggled to remember the details. It was a storytelling game, she knew that much. “We shall need sheets of paper and pens. Each person writes the first part of the story and then passes it on to the next person who writes the second part and so on. But we fold our pieces of paper over each time so nobody knows what the previous person has written. At the end, we read out the stories to one other. It can be quite funny.”

“It sounds fun to me”, said Laura, delivering another kick to ensure compliance.

“Anything’s got to be better than another game of cards, I suppose.” conceded Eleanor.

Neil breathed an audible sigh of relief and went off to find paper and pens. Maggie put down her book, resigned to being master of ceremonies.

“The storyline is always the same. A man meets a woman – we have to give the characters names – then we say where they met, what each of them wore, what they said to each other and finally what the consequence was.”

“What’s a consequence?” asked Eleanor.

Maggie made a mental note to speak with Eleanor’s English teacher at the beginning of the new term.

“It’s something that happens as the direct result of something else that we do or say. Consequences can be good or bad”, replied Laura, delighted to have had this opportunity to show off her superior knowledge. “Isn’t that right, Mum?”

“Consequences don’t always have to be so serious, I hope”, interjected Neil. “Let’s just play the game and see how we get on.”

Half an hour and some six rounds of ‘Consequences’ later, Maggie complained of an oncoming headache and took herself upstairs. Once inside the bedroom, she walked straight over to the window and flung it wide open, sucking in lungfuls of cool, fresh air and allowing the rain to stroke her flushed cheeks. The storm seemed to be letting up at last, so why wouldn’t the guilt?

Maggie slumped down on the bed and removed the crumpled piece of paper from the back pocket of her trousers. It was the story from their last but one round of ‘Consequences’.

“Richard met Jane on a park bench….”

Maggie had met Richard Leclerc some three years previously at a trade fair in Hamburg. They were just two people who kept bumping into each other – at the fair, at the hotel, at the airport on the way home. They had exchanged business cards, of course, and on her first day back in the office, Richard had called Maggie to see whether they could meet for lunch one day. Maggie had hesitated at first, unsure as to whether she wanted to develop this friendship, but meeting on a bench in St James’ Park which was halfway between their respective offices, seemed innocent enough.

Who had Maggie been kidding? Only herself. Surely Neil hadn’t been fooled by this wife who had turned sullen and moody almost overnight, who could no longer be bothered with sorting through the details of their daily lives or engaging with the children in their various activities. And who, in their love-making was certainly no longer proactive and barely responded to Neil’s advances.

Yet, at the time, Maggie had barely thought of Neil or the girls. She had certainly not contemplated the consequences. As her involvement with Richard intensified, all her waking hours were spent thinking about him, about the next time they would meet, and planning ways in which they could be together, at any cost. A broken lunch engagement with a close friend was nothing to Maggie anymore if it meant two more hours with Richard … alone with him in his flat or in his bed.

“He wore a pair of stripy socks; she wore a red dress ….”

One day, while Richard was in the shower and Maggie was getting ready to return to the office, she felt a sudden urge to explore the large fitted wardrobe in the bedroom. She knew that Richard kept his things in the left hand side but he had never opened the right hand door. Perhaps that side had belonged to his ex-wife.

When Richard came back into the bedroom, Maggie was holding the dress in one hand and the shoes in the other.

“You told me you were divorced. Single.”

“I am.”

“So whose are these?”

Maggie had relived that moment so many times since then. Richard’s feeble, stammering reply; each attempt at an explanation more ridiculous and pathetic than the previous one, until Maggie could take no more and left without a word or a backward glance. Even if Richard had been wearing enough clothes to run after her, she prayed that he wouldn’t. And he didn’t.

In the months that followed, Maggie lived in her own private hell. She had kept her affair with Richard completely secret and so had no confessor. She felt ill most of the time, unable to shake off the constant aching (for her body missed Richard more than her heart, that was true). And then there was the constant fear of discovery that haunted her, that made her jump whenever the telephone rang, that sent her scurrying to the front door when the post arrived, that shut her off completely from those closest to her, especially Neil.

But he was as unchanged and constant as ever. If Neil knew or even suspected anything, it would have been impossible to tell.

Instead of thinking about Richard, Maggie now spent her days rehearsing that moment when Neil would confront her with her infidelity or she, crushed by the weight of her mental anguish would confess all to him. She imagined what it would be like to be on the receiving end of the full force of his anger and rage; the recriminations – all justified – which he would fling at her and against which she would have no defence. Would Neil leave her? Would she leave Neil? What would happen to the girls? Would their futures be destroyed by her selfishness? Certainly, they would never forgive her.

Yet as the weeks and months passed, no such scenarios presented themselves. Maggie often found herself on the verge of confession, but could never quite take that final step.

Winter passed into spring and Neil started to talk about them ‘getting away from it all’, surfing the internet for likely hideaways. The girls were endlessly busy with school, activities and their rapidly expanding social lives. Gradually, Maggie found herself being drawn again into the rhythm of their family life and found that it gave her some comfort and consolation. She still felt a great burden of guilt about her affair with Richard but accepted that it would be with her for years to come, if not for the rest of her life.

* * * * *
“How’s the head?”

Maggie opened her eyes to see Neil beaming down at her. She felt groggy and hoped that, in the fading light, he would not be able to see that she had been crying.

“You’ve been up here for ages.”

“Sorry, I must have dropped off. Headache’s gone though. What are the girls doing?”

“Eleanor’s starving, so they’re pulling the kitchen apart looking for something to eat.”

Neil sat down on the end of the bed and leant forward confidentially.

“While we’ve got a moment Mags, there is something we should talk about.”

Maggie sat up and took a long, deep breath.

“I was reading through some of those ‘Consequences’ stories we wrote and Eleanor’s spelling is atrocious. I don’t know what she’s learning at school.”

Maggie tried very hard not to look relieved.

“Then, perhaps, after supper, we should have a spelling bee”, she suggested.

They both laughed amicably. No confession, no absolution. Yet, possibly, a future.