Breaking and Entering (2 page)

The night was close, oppressive; yesterday's humidity still hanging in the air. It was only the first week of June, yet London had been sweltering in a heatwave. He stood at the front gate, looking back at the house, then up and down the street. Thirty-three Elveley Road was home, though he often needed to remind himself. Some languages possessed no word for home, and he could understand that omission. Wasn't it an arrogance to assume you belonged anywhere?

He lit a second cigarette, then switched his gaze to the sky. The curdled mass of swarthy clouds seemed to be breathing very fast; as overwrought as he was. He couldn't see a moon, but a few stars pricked the darkness. He tried some calculations in his head: this galaxy was only one of some one hundred thousand millions, and each galaxy contained a further hundred thousand million stars, which added up to … bewilderment. And, in looking at the stars, he was gazing into the distant past – a distinctly unsettling thought. He exhaled a curl of smoke, wondering what was going on at base. Were the stars which seemed so quiescent to him in fact burning out, collapsing?

He cursed under his breath. He, too, was collapsing, or at least his normal life was. It was no better out of doors: the leeches clamped in place still, and sucking furiously. Yet this was friendly territory: the local shops where people knew his name, where he bought his cigarettes, or popped in for a takeaway. How odd that in a universe of Black Holes and Final Crunches people should still bother with pizzas or kebabs, set up businesses and restaurants, offer 10p off detergent, or four cans of beans for the price of three. If only there were a superstore where he could purchase a new self – an honest, virtuous Daniel who didn't smoke or cheat on his wife; a Daniel with the sort of hair which was faithful unto death.

He trudged on past the greengrocer's, picking up a nectarine discarded in the gutter. Last time he'd seen Juliet, they'd had nectarines for lunch – a picnic in Soho Square, with two tramps sprawled beyond them, and a fret of pigeons squabbling at their feet. He shut his eyes, could see the teethmarks shining in her fruit, juice dripping on her hands – slender hands with varnished nails, not stubby paint-stained fingers like his wife's. He looked down at his own hand, surprised to find the nectarine was mouldy, a huge purple bruise blemishing its flesh. Juliet's flesh was always strangely cool. Even when the temperature was soaring in the eighties, she never seemed to sweat. He felt embarrassed sometimes by his own hot body, sticking to her thighs.

If he walked on to the phone-box, he could leave a message for her: ‘I love you, Juliet.' Except that wasn't wise, and it was possibly untrue. If only his mistress and his daughter wouldn't keep on tangling in his mind, each fighting for more space. Pippa wasn't strictly his daughter, but that seemed to make no difference. He had always called her his, avoiding the term ‘step' with all its evil connotations. Stepfathers rarely featured in the fairy tales, only wicked stepmothers, but he'd been wicked in his way. It was partly his fault that she never saw her real father, or so her grandma claimed. He hurled the rotten fruit away, then ground his cigarette beneath his heel. So much was his fault.

Start again, he told himself, concentrate on simple things: the solid pavement, divided into squares; the plucky lamp-posts making light of darkness; his own agile, dogged shadow. He longed to speak to someone, if only to prove he still existed; was more than just a shadow. But there was not a soul around – no homeless tramps, no drunken party-goers lurching home. This particular part of Wandsworth was genteel: Victorian houses, rather cramped, admittedly, but adorned with tasteful hanging baskets and self-important burglar alarms; bay trees in rustic wooden tubs flanking the front steps. Maybe he should knock at one and beg to be let in, sleep beside a different wife, soothe a different child.
Was
Pippa still a child? ‘It's her age,' their GP said, everybody said. He sympathized. Thirteen and forty had certain things in common.

He was almost at the phone-box. He passed it, then looped back, stood dithering at the door. He needn't say ‘I love you'. He could simply make a joke, pretend to be her alarm-call. He pushed the heavy door, recoiling from the smell of pee. The receiver smelt as well, of someone else's sweat; sat clammy in his hand. He dug out a cache of coins, inserted 20p. Juliet's recorded voice sounded imperious and shrill. ‘…' Please speak clearly after the bleep.' Boss-pot, he grinned fondly. And what about the mum-blers, those who swallowed their words? Would she deign to ring them back, or respond only to the clear-speakers? The bleep sang out three times. He opened his mouth to say ‘I love you'.

Far from speaking clearly, he had no voice at all. He had totally forgotten, despite the pain in his throat. He coughed into the mouthpiece. Perhaps she'd recognize his cough, realize he was ill. Unlikely. He'd
have
to go to work, to get someone else to phone her and explain the laryngitis. You could hardly ask your wife to ring your mistress. He kicked out at the glass, glad he was wearing canvas shoes which didn't protect his feet. He needed pain, deserved it. He stared at his blurred reflection in the glass, wondering for the umpteenth time what Juliet had seen in him, why she had asked him to that concert. Penny called him dishy, but it was not a word he used. How could you be sure whether you were even passable, let alone appealing, when you were always looking from the inside out?

He stepped into the street again, glancing up as a plane droned overhead. It astonished him that people could actually sleep, hurtling through the stratosphere at four hundred miles an hour, when he couldn't keep his own eyes shut in a securely grounded bed. He checked his watch: ten to four. It would be light in just an hour. June was merciful in that respect, at least. He crossed the road to Gascoigne-Pees and began to read the details of the properties. Estate agents were merciful as well, transforming faults into advantages. Small was ‘bijou'; dilapidated ‘quaint'. Perhaps he should employ one, to put a more favourable gloss on his own personal deficiencies – faithless revamped as ‘sensuous'; forty as ‘in his prime'. He started composing their advertisement for insertion in
The Times
: ‘Viewing highly recommended for this older-style but still attractive property, beautifully maintained, but requiring modernization and refurbishing. Many interesting features to suit discerning buyer.' Or maybe something snappier: ‘Handsome semi-detached man of charm and character …'

He wandered two doors on and stopped outside a jeweller's, its glass protected by a latticework of steel. He peered in through the grid, glimpsed a display of wedding rings, each gold band nestling on a tiny blue silk cushion. He began counting in his head again; days, this time, not galaxies. Christ Almighty! It was their wedding anniversary tomorrow – no, today. A shrink would doubtless say he had forgotten it deliberately, but whatever the psychological complexities, it still left him in a sweat. He hadn't bought a present or a card, hadn't ordered flowers. Penny would wake before the shops were open, expect breakfast in bed, with a gift-wrapped package on the tray. He had produced it every year so far, so he could hardly stop at the seventh. Seven was a sacred number, which had always had a marvellous press: seven pillars of wisdom, seven wonders of the world, seven virtues, seventh heaven. On the minus side, however, there were the seven deadly sins. Not to mention the seven-year itch; himself the living proof of it.

He clenched his fist against the glass, tempted to smash through it, filch a pair of earrings or a bracelet. But then he'd spend the day behind bars. It would be imprisonment in any case. He couldn't lunch with Juliet on his wedding anniversary. Thank God for his laryngitis, the perfect foolproof excuse. Though how the hell was he going to let her know, or cancel the reservation at La Barca?

‘BUY HER AN ETERNITY RING', a cardboard placard urged. ‘DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER', proclaimed another. Important to stress eternity when four in ten marriages broke down, and (according to the statistics) in another twenty years almost every married couple would end up in the divorce courts. Of course, if the jewellers were shrewd businessmen, they could cash in on the trend and design a special range of trinkets for the divorce market – pendants inscribed with slogans such as. ‘It was great while it lasted', or ‘Thanks for the memory – goodbye'. But the pendants in the window seemed unashamedly old-fashioned. They either bore a simple name – Sharon, Michelle, Mum – or gushed with schmaltzy sentiment. ‘I love you more each day', a chunky locket confided to him in elaborate Gothic script, and there were several variations on the theme. ‘I'll never stop loving you', ‘I'll love you more tomorrow than today'. That last one sounded strange: ambiguous, to say the least. Did people really wear such things, take them seriously? Perhaps he ought to buy one for himself, string it round his neck to make its magic work.

He knew which one he'd choose: that eighteen-carat love-heart divided into two; the interlocking edges exactly matching up when you slotted them together. Both halves were engraved: ‘Tony' on the left, ‘Diana' on the right, ‘ENGRAVING FREE' enticed a small card underneath it. Bargains even here. Cut-price love, 10p off fidelity. The only problem was, he needed
three
halves – Daniel, Penny, Juliet.

He shrugged and turned away, heading back for home. He doubted any jeweller could divide one heart three ways.

‘Happy anniversary!' croaked Daniel. He had regained a shred of voice now, coaxed back by tea and gargling.

‘You're worse,' said Penny. ‘Much.'

‘No,' he struggled. ‘Better.'

She reached up to take the tray from him, her right breast still floating free. ‘You're the one who needs breakfast in bed.'

‘I've had mine, in the kitchen.' The wretched voice kept cracking, but at least it was holding out.

‘What did you have?'

‘A quart of tea, with honey, and two fags.'

‘Oh, no! You've given up. I mean, you promised, darling, faithfully.'

He winced to hear that word again. ‘I know.'

‘Oh, Daniel …'

‘Oh, Penn …'

She patted the space beside her; rumpled floral sheets which needed washing. ‘Well, get in anyway. I don't fancy breakfast on my own, not on our anniversary. I bought you a new lighter, by the way.'

‘Great.'

‘It's not great. It's crazy. I bought it a whole month ago, before your Big Decision.' She made the phrase half-jokey, half-sarcastic.

‘Well, you can probably take it back, tell the shop you …'

‘Wouldn't you like to see it first?'

‘Yes, 'course.' He should have warned her after the first occasion not to buy him lighters, but instead he had feigned such gratitude, she kept repeating the performance. It would be unkind to tell her now that the best lighters were the cheapest: matches, Bics, the gas flame on the cooker.

‘I'll fetch it in a sec. I wrapped it up and everything, but then you really threw me, giving up like that.'

He unlaced his shoes and got into bed beside her, still in his shirt and jeans. ‘So aren't you glad I've weakened, then?'

‘No.' She kissed him, seriously. His wife never skimped on kisses, always gave full measure, always took her time.

‘You'll catch my germs,' he growled, at last.

‘I like your germs. Though I'm afraid they won't at the office. You'd better not go in today, or you'll spread that bug around.'

‘I must. I've got a meeting. It'll cause too much aggravation if I miss it.'

‘You said that
last
time you were ill, and look what happened – in the end you had to take a whole fortnight off. It's much more sensible to stay at home for a day or two. If you insist on battling on like a martyr, you'll only go down with something worse.'

He leaned over to the tray and passed her the glass of grapefruit juice. ‘Aren't you going to eat your breakfast? Your boiled egg's getting cold.'

‘I like them cold. And don't change the subject. You look feverish to me.'

‘I'm not. I'm fine. I haven't even …'

‘It's selfish, Daniel, honestly, making everyone else ill, just because you're a workaholic and too stubborn to see sense.'

He lay back against the pillows in a posture of defeat. It was bad enough being deceitful and weak-willed, without adding selfish martyred stubbornness to his catalogue of vices. ‘Okay, you win,' he conceded. ‘I'll languish on my sick-bed all day, and won't even
think
of work.' Except he'd have to think of Juliet: how on earth he could get in touch with her if he didn't leave his bed?

‘Good boy!' said Penny, stroking his hair from his forehead.

She had left her hand against his brow, as if rewarding him for compliance. It felt soothing and arousing both at once. He slid his own hand down towards her breast, savouring its warmth, its weight. ‘Penny …'

‘Mm?'

‘I love you.' He prayed God it was true still.

‘Love you too.'

‘I'll love you more tomorrow than today.'

‘What?' She pushed him off, took a sip of juice. ‘Why more tomorrow? What's happening tomorrow?'

‘Nothing. I'll just love you more each day.'

‘You're taking the mick.'

‘I'm not. And here's your present. D'you want it now, or after your cold egg?'

‘Now!' Her full attention was already on the package, squeezing it and shaking it, sniffing at the paper like an eager dog at a fox-hole. He had found some gift-wrap in a drawer (the sheet she'd bought for him, most likely: his lighter and her earrings decked out alike in purple stripes).

She ripped the paper off. Penny never untied knots or unpeeled sticky-tape. It was one of the crazy reasons why he loved her – if he only knew what love was.