Anatomy of a Marriage

By Ellen Tipping

Peter and Kate host an end-of-year dinner for Peters colleagues. All is going well until Petras name is mentioned. Lying in bed later that evening, Kate recalls the first time she heard Petras name and the circumstances and events that followed.

Peter moved to Sydney, initially for two years. Kate wasnt to leave her job; he would commute from Melbourne on Monday morning and return on Friday evening. Kate was shaken by his departure. In the past, when Peter was briefly overseas or interstate, she had the comfort, security, and domestic chaos of her darling daughters still living at home. Now, she had loneliness at night, fear for her physical safety, but more importantly, fear for her marriage.

Anatomy of a Marriage explores the relationship between two flawed human beings. It is about love, fear, jealousy, and pragmatism. It is about commitment and deception. It implicitly questions how well a wife knows her husband and how well she knows herself. It illuminates the gap between self-perception and projection and how haphazard life is and how contingent it is on a myriad of trivial (or major) events, on the ripples caused by an insect lighting on the still surface of a pond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Dec 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543405408

Ellen Tipping

Ellen Tipping is a psychologist. Literature and its illumination of human behaviour and relationships are lifelong passions. Hence, after years of policy-related research in health and education, she started writing fiction, which aims to do just that.

Book preview

PART I

THE CHRISTMAS CARD

S he thought back over the previous evening. It had gone well: starting with drinks in the courtyard - warm evening, the afterglow of sunset fading in the sky. They had had their spicy hummus and taramasalata with rice crackers, straws of celery and carrot, and a celebratory glass of champagne. Then came a general consensus that it would be a shame to go inside. So Kate brought out the Coffin Bay oysters with wedges of lemon and chunks of wholemeal sour dough bread, and Peter opened the Cape Mentelle sauvignon blanc. It was an end of year dinner for Peter’s colleague, Stephen, their P.A., Judy, and her husband, Jim: neither Kate nor Peter had met Jim before.

Kate joked about the birthday celebration she and Peter were going to the following Saturday - old school friend of Peter’s - black tie affair, would you believe, to be held on a mountain in the Dandenongs, heavily wooded and, Kate’s friend had confided, infested with leeches.

‘I hate leeches,’ Kate shuddered.

Jim said quietly that when he went duck shooting, he always wore a pair of Judy’s pantyhose.

‘And it works?’ Kate asked excitedly.

‘Seems to.’

She was thrilled that serendipitously they had hit upon a topic so early in the evening to which Jim could contribute. Not that she exactly approved of duck shooting.

At that point the mossies were beginning to bite. The party relocated to the living room while Kate quickly seared the Atlantic salmon fillets, served the jacket potatoes with sour cream and spring onions, and dressed the green salad: Kate was delighted with its aroma of basil from her carefully tended new herb garden, and with the fresh dill in her mayonnaise and lemon sauce for the fish. Rarely had everything turned out so well. Usually she was concerned that something had been overcooked or undercooked, tough or tasteless. It was over the platter of summer fruit and cheese that the conversation turned to Petra. Kate was talking with Jim when she heard Petra’s name mentioned. She turned and asked Stephen where Petra was. Stephen hesitated, glancing at Peter.

‘Ah-h Prague - isn’t that right, Peter? – ah-h Peter would know.’ During Stephen’s hesitant reply, Peter had shot a steely glance at Kate.

Then Judy said, ‘Well, we’ve all spoken to her, she’s been ringing Peter - well it was every day for a time there.’

‘Anyone for more wine?’ Kate said brightly to cover the hushed hiatus at the table. People shook their heads. ‘Coffee? Tea?’ Kate gathered up some of the debris from the table and went into the kitchen, followed by Peter carrying plates. He mumbled something to Kate which she heard as a conciliatory ‘love you, darling.’ She lightly responded, ‘love you, too, darling.’ To which he said coldly, ‘I didn’t say that. I said, lovely evening.’ ‘Oh, yes, it’s gone well, hasn’t it?’ she said. Of course he might be referring to the balmy temperature, not the social event, she thought. How ambiguous the English language is at times.

The guests left en masse and Kate said, ‘I’ll clear up, darling, you’ve got an early start.’ After an initial demurral Peter disappeared into the bedroom. Kate blew out the candles, scraped the dirty dishes and put them in the dish washing machine, washed the wine glasses, upending them on the bench, and covered the leftovers. She then headed for the bedroom. Peter was in bed, lying rigidly on his side with his face to the wall. He said nothing. Kate cleaned her teeth, washed her face, slipped out of her clothes and got into bed. Peter remained silently turned away from her. What was he feeling? She had thought maybe embarrassed… guilty?

It was only the following evening when he returned home that it began to dawn on her that it was rage. After some strained, but polite, reciprocal queries about each other’s day, Kate said, ‘Well, are you going to tell me about Petra?’

‘What do you mean?’ He glared at her angrily.

That was not the way she should have started. It was meant to sound casual. But it had come out heavy, condemnatory. She should have thought it out more carefully, approached the topic more gently, exploring and probing rather than apparently assuming the worst.

‘Well, you told me you had nothing to do with her these days. Hadn’t for years - not since you were overseeing Eastern Europe.’

‘When did I say that? I don’t remember.’

‘After that farewell dinner - three people talked to me about her. Asked me if I’d met her. Said what a lovely woman she was, how attractive. Stan even said - all his trips away I think he must have another woman. It was a joke but coming five minutes after Stephen talked to me about Petra, I –’

‘Well, I don’t talk about her because you’re so jealous and suspicious.’

‘Darling, I don’t see how you can say that - I can’t afford to be - you’re away all the time. I don’t even ask where you’re staying, or who you’re dining with.’

‘No, I mean about her. I just remember how you carried on about that Christmas card.’

‘But that was years ago - what - five, six years ago.’

‘No it wasn’t, more like two or three. You went off the deep end, finding it in that old satchel.’

‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten.’

And she had, too: nice of him to remind her. What she’d remembered was the night, five-six years ago, when she’d flown up to Sydney to join Peter for the weekend. It was Peter’s first extended stint in Sydney, commuting on a weekly basis to help set up a small branch office in Sydney with a core group of professional, technical and support staff. Kate hadn’t minded that time because it was only for a couple of months and, more importantly, she wasn’t alone: her beautiful daughters, Sophie and Camilla, were still living at home. It was quite pleasant, Kate remembered, just the three of them, not nearly as much cooking or housework; and Peter coming home for the weekend or Kate spending the odd couple of days in Sydney. That particular weekend was their wedding anniversary: Peter had booked them into a hotel in Manly where they had had their honeymoon twenty-five years before…

Peter picked her up from the airport then dropped in at his apartment to change out of his suit and throw a few casual clothes into a backpack.

‘Darling, I’ll go down to the car, I left my handbag on the back seat,’ Kate called from the door. Going through the foyer she stopped and checked Peter’s mailbox. Peter came down and they headed for Manly. There were compensations for living apart, Kate thought.

In the evening, after dinner – a yummy seafood platter - Kate and Peter walked down to the beach. Even in the dark, reflected light bounced off the rolling surf and the breaking waves were a luminous white. The occasional small group of people huddled darkly on the cold sand. The Norfolk pines were black against the gun-metal sky. And then they saw the flickering candlelight. On the beach, down a flight of stairs was an elaborate sand sculpture reminiscent of the Middle East. As they drew closer they saw it was curved in the shape of a dragon, but still the perfect shape of a minaret arose two-thirds along the ridge of its back. And candlelight flickered from cavernous depths.

Next morning Peter went for a pre-breakfast swim; Kate met him for coffee and then they walked along the beach; she held his hand, turning to smile up into his face, elated by the white ruffled aqua waves rolling in, the warmth of the sun on her skin, and being there… together. She looked for the sculpture: it had been flattened by council workers sweeping the beach for used needles and other detritus. But that night they walked the beach again in the darkness and there at the foot of the stairs was a perfect sand sculpture: this time like a temple, half moon in shape with minarets and architectural subtleties that made it satisfyingly asymmetrical, and again candlelight warmly illuminated glimpsed interiors.

Mind you, the Manly Palace wasn’t quite the same as twenty-five years ago: their bedroom became a sleep-depriving torture chamber late Saturday night and in the early hours of Sunday morning. Were the revellers, the brawlers, the hoons in their hotted up cars, and the noisy lovers, the same people? And just when these noises had faded to silence the garbage and recycle trucks started trundling up the back lane loading refuse and crashing bottles. Oddly she realized when the stimulus that wakes her is external she falls back into a deep sleep when it ceases; it is the internal noise that, having woken her, leaves her wide awake for hours, that just won’t be stilled.

Early Monday morning they’d checked out and were heading for the airport. Peter was driving. Kate was rummaging in her handbag for her plane ticket when she pulled out a little bundle of envelopes. ‘Oh I forgot, I picked up your mail from the apartment Friday afternoon,’ Kate said. ‘A couple of bills, and there’s - looks like an invitation from –’ she hesitated, peering at the stamp on the envelope.

Peter interrupted, ‘Oh, what’s the invitation?’

‘From Czechoslovakia, I think, and it’s not an invitation, it’s a Christmas card. Shall I read it?’

‘No,’ Peter said abruptly.

Kate responded quietly ‘I have.’

Kate read out the long, soppy message - to a very special person, for all the special things you do, for your caring, for the trouble you take to listen etc, etc. Petra.

Peter, quickly, ‘Oh, I know who he is.’

Kate thought: strange, why didn’t it go to the office? Why did Peter say I know who he is rather than who that is, which would be the more usual form of expression? And wasn’t Petra a woman’s name? The sudden silence was interrupted by Peter. ‘They do carry on!’ he said with some irritation. If he weren’t feeling caught out, guilty, he would have been rather touched, certainly amused, laughed about the emotionalism. A subdued silence descended on the car and remained for the rest of the journey. I mustn’t say anything, spoil our time together, Kate thought, heart thumping.

Then a couple of years after that trip to Manly they were clearing out Peter’s study. His old briefcase was to be relegated to the Brotherhood of St. Lawrence pile and Kate was checking its pockets in case some important document was being discarded. And there it was: the Christmas card tucked away with a copy of Peter’s father’s will and other documents related to his family. And yes, she admits she was upset, accused him of keeping it, hiding it in a place she was unlikely to find it, seeing it as evidence that Peter’s relationship with Petra was more than purely professional.

She couldn’t believe that she’d forgotten about it. Repressed it, even? Years ago she had come to the decision that she couldn’t be worrying all the time about who he was with. There were so many trips interstate and overseas, so many dinners and receptions. He even used to comment to others - not to Kate but certainly in her presence - how he had become more attractive to women as he grew older, laughing about his lack of success when he was young – which was not very flattering to her, come to think of it. And he certainly enjoyed flirting, being the centre of attention while constantly seeking reassurance about how young he looked: he does, too, thought Kate with a grim glance at her husband.

‘In my defence darling, she’s a very attractive, young, unattached woman, or so people delight in telling me. Who was employed by you, is in desperate circumstances –’

‘No, not desperate –’

‘Let me finish. And she feels she has a special relationship with you. I don’t think it’s surprising that I - on the odd occasion, and it hasn’t been many - speculated how much that special relationship goes beyond the professional. And I don’t think I’m the only person who feels that.’

‘No, no you’re not.’

‘But I’m going to bury those speculations and I have the capacity to do that.’

‘I’m sure you have. But she’s not desperate. In fact she’s very well off. With her Australian salary and the fall in the local currency, she’s a wealthy woman. She’s bought a large apartment – or so I’m told,’ he hastened to add, ‘in the centre of Prague. She’s a wealthy woman.’

At least he conceded that Kate was not the only one to have their suspicions. But that name again, it brought it all back: Peter’s shock decision to move to Sydney without her; and that sudden trip to Europe before his transfer, when the project - she now understood - was being finally negotiated.

PART II

Three years earlier

SUMMER HEAT AND CELIA

P eter had left in the middle of their summer escape to