Fifty-Minute Hour (37 page)

Mary blinked in the harsh glare, pressed herself against him, one naked leg seeking out his trousered one. James removed the leg, and then his coat and scarf.

‘Mary, what's got into you? You'll catch your death wandering round half-undressed when they've just forecast a sharp frost. What
is
that thing you're wearing?'

Mary nuzzled his right shoulder, tried out the sexy throaty voice she'd been practising all day. ‘It's a playsuit, darling.'

‘Playsuit? I thought Tuesday was your Old Folks' Day.'

She nodded.

‘So did they have a fancy dress or something?'

‘No, bingo.'

‘Two fat ladies – eighty-eight.'

‘James, I'm
not
fat.'

‘Well, you look it in that romper thing. It's made for someone Jon's age, judging by its length. Go and put a sweater on. You sound as if you've caught a cold already. Your throat's quite hoarse, you realise.'

Mary trailed into the kitchen. It wasn't going right at all. According to the books, James was meant to respond to her with passion and abandon, fling off all his own clothes, not suggest she put hers on. She draped the kitchen towel around her shoulders. It
was
a little chilly. She'd built up such a fug at first she feared James would get a headache, so she'd opened all the windows, gone too far the other way. Typical of her these days. Her moods were like a roller-coaster. John-Paul seemed delighted, said she was more in touch with parts of herself often inaccessible – the raging infant, fractious child, rebellious adolescent. But she must forget all that tonight. This evening she was not John-Paul's, but James's – his floozie and his sex kitten, his Playgirl of the Month.

She went to open the champagne. You were meant to do it with your ‘partner' (which sounded more exciting than mere husband); snuggled close and naked on the kitchen table or bathroom floor, or under the grand piano on an exotic tigerskin rug, or among the phallic orchids in the greenhouse. They had only an old upright, and no greenhouse at all, so she'd settled for the kitchen, but her ‘partner' should be with her all the same. The exploding cork, the foaming whoosh of bubbles were a foretaste of the man's ejaculation – or so one book explained – helped build up the erotic tension, set the mood of intimacy, excitement. She could hear James in the hall still, banging things about, shouting at Horatio, grousing to himself (or her?) that the idiot roof-repair man had never returned about the leak. She removed the kitchen towel, shimmied out to join him.

‘I'm sorry, darling, I'll ring him in the morning. But let's not think of roofs now.' (She had dreamt about their leaky roof just a week ago, and John-Paul had interpreted it as fear about conceiving – the roof symbolising a condom which was intended as a barrier against the rain – or sperm; meant to keep the wet out. It didn't sound convincing. James had never used a condom in his life, and, secretly, she
wanted
to conceive.) She pressed a brimming glass into her husband's restless hands, its golden bubbles sparkling in the light. She had glazed the rim with egg-white, frosted it with sugar.

‘What's this? Champagne? I can't touch the stuff – not now. I've got frightful indigestion, so the last thing I want is any more damned bubbles exploding in my gut.'

‘Oh,
James
.'

‘What d' you mean “Oh, James”? What
is
all this, for God's sake?' He grimaced at himself in the mirror on the wall, arranged a strand of limp grey hair across his thinning patch. Mary steered him into the sitting room, which she had prepared with scented candles, piles of scatter cushions, bowls of exotic fruit. She tugged his favourite chair back into its place, patted it encouragingly. She couldn't see him perching on a cushion, or stretched out on the carpet. The husbands in the sex-books were a different breed entirely, followed droolingly and slavishly if their naked-breasted ‘partners' suggested bathing in champagne. James refused even to drink his, had totally ignored the fact her nipples were on show. He was making for the sideboard, poured himself a triple Glenmorangie, the soda syphon hissing his annoyance. She followed, dared an arm around his waist.

‘Don't you know what day it is?'

‘Yes, I do – settlement day. I'm not likely to forget it, Mary. It's been chaos in the office from eight o'clock this morning till I dragged myself away, half-dead. Apart from having to square all the accounts, I've had three really bloody meetings and…'

‘It's our wedding anniversary.'

James collapsed back in his chair, started counting on his fingers. ‘Christ! You're right – the eleventh of December. Forgive me, darling. It completely slipped my mind. I'm sorry, Mary, really. I've been sounding off, and it's hardly your fault, is it? I'm just absolutely knackered. I had a rotten night last night, worrying about the accounts, and by the time I've sweated twelve hours in the hot seat, I'm more or less at screaming pitch. Look, let's go out to dinner. If I phone Pierre's immediately, we'll probably get a table. Or we could try that little Greek place in …'

Mary squeezed his hand. ‘I've … er … bought food, actually. If you come into the kitchen, darling, everything's laid out.'

‘Let's not slum it in the kitchen, Mary. What's wrong with the dining-room?'

‘It's cold.'

‘Well, light the fire – and can't you get your clothes on? You're making me feel cold as well, displaying all that flesh. Okay, I'll come, I'll come.'

Mary watched the whisky spill as James jerked up from his seat. He'd apologised for shouting, yet was cross again a scant two seconds later. He was drinking far too much these days, splurging money on twelve-year-old malt whiskies, then worrying about the bills. The bills
were
huge – she knew that – not just three sets of school fees, but now John-Paul as well. She longed to make it up to him, get closer in all ways, break down that shell of worry and bad temper which had crusted over the softer more romantic James she'd known once, long ago. Perhaps things would be better once he'd had a bite to eat. What he described as indigestion was often only hunger-pains, or tension. She led the way into the kitchen, her husband stumbling after her, tripping on the dog's bowl as he entered the dim room.

‘More candles? Has Father Fox been turning out his stocks? Sorry, darling, just my little joke. It
is
a bit depressing, though, sitting in this gloom. Reminds me of the power-cuts we had two years ago. And what's the funny smell?'

‘Incense.'

‘So you
have
been round to Father Fox. It feels like church in here. It's taking things a bit damn far to re-create the wedding service. Can't we settle for a simple anniversary?'

‘Kiss me, James.'

The kiss was disappointing. She'd been learning how to kiss – at least the theory of it – the eyelash kiss, the tongue-bath, the kiss
a la cannibale
, which the books said left a bruise, and something called
maraichignage
which was definitely advanced. All she needed was some practice, not that brief peck on the cheek.

‘There! Now, when do I get my supper? My stomach's sort of grinding on itself. I missed out on lunch completely. That wretched Crawshaw turned up at half past ten and was still jawing four hours later – and on settlement day of all days, would you believe? I had another meeting at two-thirty, so there wasn't even time for a sandwich.'

James was groping in the gloom to find a kitchen stool. Mary set a second one beside his. (Cushions were obviously advanced, like
maraichignage
, would have to wait till later.) It
was
extremely dim. Half the candles had gone out when she'd opened all the windows, and she'd forgotten to relight them. The food had been another problem – where to lay it out. The table was strictly out of bounds, transformed into a love-nest, and anyway, Horatio could reach it. The dog could reach most surfaces, so she'd arranged it on two trays and placed them high up on the freezer. She went to get them down again, Horatio in hot pursuit, sniffing rudely at her groin, as well as just the food. James was still complaining about his lack of lunchtime sustenance.

‘Couldn't you have asked your secretary to send you up a snack?'

‘I could, if she'd been there. She's off with what she calls a “virus” – which probably means a hangover.'

‘Or oysters?' Mary crouched by James's stool, one naked arm reaching back behind her to the tray.

‘
Oysters
?'

‘Yes. Open your mouth.'

James opened it, half swallowed, choked the oyster back again, plugged the void with whisky. ‘I'm sorry, Mary, but if there's one thing I can't face, and especially not tonight, it's oysters. The last time I had oysters was at that damn-fool pricey restaurant the Crawshaws took us to, and I went down with salmonella. You can't have forgotten, surely? I was ill for two whole weeks.'

‘No, I …' Mary's voice was faltering. Of course she hadn't forgotten. She'd bought the tinned ones specially, as far less of a health risk, and also easier to serve. James was an impatient man, hated anything in shells, or with fiddly bones or skins, or even things like artichokes or grapefruit, which required a lot of effort for rather mean returns. At least four different sex-books had recommended oysters. They were not only aphrodisiac, but apparently symbolic of the womb, represented the creative force of female sexuality. Yet James had spat his out, flung it to the dog. Even Horatio had spurned it, just sniffed and walked away. But then Horatio was replete with Beef and Rabbit Chum, whereas James was clearly ravenous. Yet all the books had warned against a heavy meal, or even a conventional one. ‘Feed your lover titbits from your hand, or even mouth. Slice and peel a passion fruit, pass it from your lips his.' The passion fruit was ready in the fridge, dipped in wine, and chilling, to provide a double thrill. It was James himself who clearly wasn't ready – or only for his normal solid supper.

‘Look, if you don't feel up to cooking, Mary, I'll scramble us some eggs, but I'll have to have some light. It's like the Black Hole of Calcutta.' James plunged towards the light-switch, gazed around the kitchen, now lit by ruthless strip lights. A tiger-print travel rug was draped across the lilo they'd bought in Tenerife, and laid between the cooker and the fridge. The saucepan rack had disappeared – in its place a vase of scarlet ostrich feather's and an ornate incense-burner. ‘What
have
you done in here, Mary? How can I cook eggs when I can't even find a saucepan? And where's the toaster gone?' He swung round the other way, stared in disbelief. ‘What in God's name is our bedding doing on the kitchen table? Has that leak got worse upstairs?' He blew out the last candles, snuffed the incense wick, returned the kettle to its socket on the work-top. ‘Mary, we're going out –
now
I'll phone and book a table while you go and put your clothes on.'

‘The steak for you, Mary?'

‘No, I think I'll have the scallops.'

‘But you're having prawns to start with.'

‘Yes, I know.' Mary shook her napkin out, sipped her sparkling wine. She couldn't seem to move away from shellfish. They symbolised fertility, the life-force, and scallops in particular were a sign of sexual passion, the two half-shells bonded close like lovers. She doubted they'd get round to love tonight. James still seemed tense and harassed, still fixated on the crises at his firm. When he'd come upstairs to change his shirt, she'd tried to hold him close, say she understood, whisper to him teasingly that if only he'd allow her, she could distract him from his problems, help him to relax. He'd seemed actually embarrassed, had backed away, suspicious, even hostile. Men were so perverse. All her married life he'd complained that she was tepid. Yet now she was on heat, his own flame had blown right out, as if he somehow needed her reluctance to fuel him, turn him on. It seemed totally irrational him spending all that money on her sessions with John-Paul, so she'd respond to him with passion, yet once he got that passion, rushing to defuse it. He'd left her in the bedroom as if she were dangerous high-explosive, sought refuge in his study. She had changed, alone and mortified, into boring woolly tights, a high-necked ‘wifely' dress, and they'd driven to Pierre's in silence, both of them resentful that they were going out at all.

She loved the restaurant normally – its soft pink lights, pink napkins, the grave and formal waiters who made dinner like a sacrament, the mingled heady smells of garlic, sizzling butter and cigars. But tonight she felt restless and on edge, slighted, almost cheated, found it hard to concentrate on James's monologue.

‘Well, I agreed to use their new integrated software package for all our commission accounts, though I must admit I had my doubts, right from the beginning. And I was absolutely right, Mary. They've buggered up the printers, and all our invoices are coming out as statements.'

‘Gosh! How awful, James.' Mary tried to keep her mind on integrated software, but it had somehow moved to Bryan. She had still not quite recovered from Saturday's debacle. It had been the feast of the Immaculate Conception and she'd gone to Mass that morning, begged Our Lady's help for him, tried explaining to the Blessed Virgin that she was giving up her church work for the more vital task of providing tea and sympathy for AIDS victims. In the middle of her prayers, she had found herself thinking of what Bryan did in bed – yes, with other men – all the shameful three-D details while she was actually kneeling in St Anthony's about to listen to a sermon on virginity and sinlessness.

Then, later on, when he turned up at her house all sluiced and starched and scrubbed, yet still looking rather vulgar in a cheapo chainstore suit and see-through nylon shirt which James would have given to a jumble sale, she'd imagined him stark naked – heaving on the floor with another man, his ‘partner' – a shadowy figure, with the body of Frank Bruno and the face of her own precious Jon. She'd been so appalled, her normal conversation had totally dried up and she'd sat there mouthing platitudes, while poor Bryan himself seemed equally self-conscious, the pair of them tongue-tied with embarrassment. She had tried to pray, right there in the sitting-room, plead for instant help, but how could she beg succour from the Immaculate Heart of Mary when her own mind was like a sewer?