Lying Together (16 page)

‘I don't know. Honestly. Just because I was here, I suppose. Just seeing that sign:
Primrose Crescent.
It was stupid …'

‘– Because I won't stand for it. And don't think you can sweet-talk Jane into anything behind my back –'

‘Barbara!' I touched her arm. Her brown skin was surprisingly soft. She pulled away sharply. I didn't know if it was me or men in general she disliked, but I felt rebuffed. ‘Believe me, the thought never crossed my mind. It's the last thing I'd be interested in. As I said to Jane –'

She wasn't listening. ‘David's everything to us. You can't just swan in here and just – impose yourself. Just because you're so well-off and think so much of yourself –'

‘Hang on a minute!' My sympathy was ebbing away and I was beginning to feel annoyed. I'd only done the wretched thing in the first place because I was
asked
. Because I felt sorry for them both. Because I liked Jane and thought it would be a simple act of kindness. After all, what were a few million sperm to me, more or less? It was no big deal. However, it was a bit rich, her going on at me. I needed to calm her down. I lowered my voice, spoke slowly, in my best negotiating manner, what Di calls my ‘soft soap'. ‘Look. Barbara. Believe me, nothing's changed. Nothing, right? Okay, I've made a mistake, coming here. And now I'm taking myself off. And you are going to forget I ever came. Is that clear?'

She nodded. I felt magnanimous. I looked at the cup in her hand. It was a nice piece of Worcester. ‘Forget the Earl Grey. A bad idea. Anyway, I prefer Lapsang these days.'

She smiled for the first time, and stretched to put the cup back on the dresser. My eyes followed it. And that was when I saw him – the chubby figure buttoned up against the winter in a blue coat and woolly hood. He was looking right at me, smiling out of the frame as if he knew me, as if he were there in the room. David.

I don't know what I said (if I said anything). My whole body was in shock, as if I'd moved abruptly to another world and back again. I just remember Barbara's voice, disembodied, as if I were coming round after anaesthetic, ‘Yes, he's really like you, isn't he? I noticed it at the front door. Gave me a bit of a turn, in fact. Your eyes are
exactly
the same.'

I could only manage a grunt. My mouth was dry, my head whirling. I put out my hand, touched it gently to his cheek through the glass. I started to stroke his face and found I couldn't stop. My finger went back and forth, back and forth as if I could rub him into existence like a genie from a lamp. I wanted the eyes to be looking at me, the mouth to be making sounds I could hear. I wanted to be able to touch his skin, speak to him. After a while I sensed Barbara shifting a bit at my shoulder. ‘D'you want to keep it? We'd often wondered, but you'd never asked, all this time, and so – well, we left it alone.'

I nodded. ‘Please.'

She tried to take the frame from me, but my hand wouldn't let it go. ‘Matthew,' she said. ‘I'll give it back, you know. I just need to …' She unclasped my fingers one by one, eased out the photo, handed it back: ‘There.'

‘Thanks.' I slipped it into my breast pocket, behind my folded handkerchief. I didn't quite know what to do next. I knew I had to go, but I hated the idea of leaving the room, the place where he spent his time with the piled bricks and the wooden toys, the light from the garden window shining on his hair. I turned to the door, feeling oddly giddy. Then turned back to Barbara: ‘Don't tell Jane. Not just about the photo. This – anything. No need.'

‘That's it, then? You don't want to see him?'

I tried to find my old confident voice, and miraculously it came. I grinned at her. ‘You know me and kids. Hate the little buggers.'

She took me in her arms and hugged me. She smelt of geraniums and cake.

So – an altogether stupid, unnecessary episode. And now, two nights later, I'm lying here, staring into the dark, unable to sleep. I thought the concert would have put me in a different frame of mind. Kennedy was fantastic, and I came out on a high, the music thrumming through my brain. But the moment I'd put Julia into her taxi, that little face flipped back into my mind. I see him everywhere now. In the Tube. On the stairs to my flat. In the hallway. In every room I go into. I haven't managed a wink in two nights, even with Di's absolute no-fail sleeping pills.

I get up, lie on the sofa, listen to Callas, drink my way through the last of the Reserva Rioja. I've forgotten the concert already. Forgotten what Julia said, her hair, her dress. I just remember
him,
looking like someone I'd like to know. It's insane.

I wash my dirty glass, plump up cushions, tidy my books, listen to the World Service, read yesterday's paper. Tomorrow I'll forget all this nonsense. I have to do it. Tim is wrong; it will go away.

Anna at the office takes one look and says, ‘Late night?'

‘Couldn't sleep. It must have been that particularly disgusting Welsh rarebit with Tim.'

‘Tim with the wonky glasses?' She laughs. Anna is very smart. As in clever and as in looks. She clearly wonders where Tim fits into my life, why I keep up the monthly ritual. She doesn't understand how complex it all is. How much I hate him for his sanctimonious, self-satisfied, wiseacre opinions; how much I love him for them, too. I've always needed Tim to keep me in focus. I need to know he's there; that he still cares enough to turn up rain or shine; that he comes bouncing back even though I abuse him and crow over him, and thrust my rich and wonderful life in his face at every opportunity. I always dread that one day he'll stop coming and that I'll be on my own.

Anna leans over me with a cloud of musky perfume as she brings me up to date with my diary. ‘The Chief wants you in his office at ten to congratulate you and Nick on the Westhouse business, and Mr Mohammed Akhtar is coming in at eleven to check on progress with the franchise.' She also tells me over her shoulder that Sarah in Accounts is leaving today and I have to make the farewell speech.

‘Remind me again why she's leaving.' I can't remember who Sarah is. Some clerical assistant, off to pastures new, I suppose.

‘She's having a baby, Matthew. You signed the card, remember?'

‘Baby. Ah, yes.' I pretend to look over the contract from Westhouse. After a minute or two I ask, ‘What about the father?'

‘Father?'
Anna looks round, in a puzzled way, from her irrigation of our office fern.

‘I suppose there's a man in the picture? Unless, of course, it's an Immaculate Conception.'

‘I doubt that, from what I hear of Sarah.' Anna's back with the fern again. ‘Anyway, it's not my business.'

And not mine either. After all, I don't remember who she is or what she looks like. And from today she won't even be on the payroll. But I can't help asking, ‘Is she going to be all right? For the future, I mean.'

‘Bit late now if she isn't.' Anna doesn't seem very concerned, picking off dead fronds. ‘Anyway, why shouldn't she be? It's the twentieth century. Who needs a man to bring up a baby?'

‘Who indeed?' It's what I've always said:
Light blue touchpaper and stand well back.
I finger the photograph in my breast pocket. It's getting dog-eared. I'll have to find a frame for it soon, or press it between the pages of a book. Soon. But not quite yet. I can't part with it yet. As I think of it, something clots in my chest, something hard and uncomfortable. I clear my throat.

‘Are you okay?' Anna looks across at me.

‘Just tired.' My face is aching; there's a pain behind my eyes. I need to concentrate on something else. The farewell speech, that's it. I'm good at that sort of thing. I can do it standing on my head. I'll tell Sarah in Accounts how much we have appreciated all the hard work she's done over the (however long) she's been with us. I'll tell her that we'll all miss her, but that we wish her every happiness for the future. Because … because, of course, she's got something to look forward to – that's it. And it's sad for us, but it's not sad for her. Because she'll be able to see the child grow up, and, yes, maybe he'll have the same eyes as her. And he'll look at her with that special look that makes your heart want to break …

I can feel the wetness on my cheeks. And now here's Anna coming towards me. She's a bit blurred. I can't hear what she's saying. Her face looks uncomprehending. I want to make a joke but I can't seem to make my mouth work. She puts out her hand, but I don't want her near me with her smooth face and smooth clothes and smell of patchouli. I don't want her long elegant fingers and immaculately painted nails. I want the smell of geraniums and baking, and the sight of small hands playing with coloured bricks.

SALAD DAYS

W
hen I get home, she's standing by the cooker. Wearing that pink cotton housecoat that flattens her breasts, gives her a sexless, no-nonsense air. And though she's standing by the cooker, there won't be any food coming out of it. Because it's Friday. And Fridays are salad days. Winter and summer, year in, year out.

She raises her eyes, gives me the look she's been perfecting all day: depressed and aggressive at the same time. It makes her face bleak, but I pretend I haven't noticed. Last thing I want to do is start an argument.

I come towards her with a smile. I haven't brought flowers – too obvious under the circumstances. I open my arms instead, move towards her lips: ‘Hello, sweetheart.'

She moves her head aside so I catch the edge of her ear and a strand of the wispy hair that has escaped from her dragged-back ponytail. All she says is, ‘You're late. And that peppermint trick doesn't fool me.'

I brazen it out. I tell her Janet Sims passed a packet round to show her appreciation for us all staying late on a Friday. And it's not exactly a lie; Janet
did
get out the Extra Strongs at one stage. Okay, some of us went for a jar after that, but there's no point in telling Denise the truth because she gets it all out of proportion. It's not as if she doesn't know what it's like after work. After all, she used to come with us when she was part of the Section. Sitting in the corner twiddling her Babycham, watching me all the time out of the corner of her eye. Smiling then. Laughing at my jokes. Looking sweet and lovely. But she's forgotten all that.

‘It's the same every flaming Friday.' She picks up a tea towel and wipes a perfectly clean worktop. ‘Other people get back
early
at the weekend. Other people
care
about their wives.'

‘Well,
other people
aren't in the Emergency Payments Section, are they? And you know what it's like there on Friday afternoons – queues practically round the block. You'd think, wouldn't you, that they'd spread their domestic crises through the week a bit, to give us poor sloggers a chance to get the giros out. But there you go – no consideration. They don't seem to realize that we've got wives and families too.'

She looks at me, weighing me up. She doesn't understand irony. And she doesn't understand the system. It actually makes no odds how late we work on Fridays, the payments won't get there before Monday – and I couldn't care less. But Denise looks a bit ashamed. She used to be a real bleeding heart in the old days, coming up from the interviews practically crying, saying how could this man leave his wife and kids with nothing to live on,
just nothing at all
? She went a bit over the top, to be honest, and Janet had to take her off the desk and move her upstairs. Opposite me, in fact. Which was where it all began.

I gesture to the pristine oven: ‘Can I give you a hand?'

‘It's only salad.' She's waiting for me to say something, but I'm not going to put myself in the wrong.

‘Fine,' I say, brightly.

‘Cheese salad.' She waits again. She knows I hate cheese. At least, I hate the cheap vacuum-packed stuff she sticks on the plate. Dry and sour-tasting, like concentrated earwax.

‘Fine,' I say. ‘Haven't had a
decent
piece of cheese for ages.'

‘Well, I can't be expected to do everything. Not on a Friday.'

‘Cheese is fine.'

‘I know you're not keen on it, but it's all I could manage.'

‘Cheese is wonderful.'

‘Why do I have to rush around all the time? On Fridays too?'

‘You don't have to, sweetheart.' (Not that she does. She's home all day, mooning around.) ‘I've told you, I'll go down the pub. Have a pie and a pint.'

‘A pie and five pints. Or not even the pie, just the pints. I know you, Philip Bessant.'

Yes siree, she knows me all right. She makes a career out of knowing me, all my weaknesses. If only she'd just lay off, we could manage. Instead, she keeps at it, the broken record: ‘Yes, I know
you
all right
.'

‘I think we've had that line.' I sit myself at the kitchen table. It's laid for two, her idea of high style. Stainless steel knives and forks, stainless steel condiment set, beige paper napkins folded into triangles, tumblers with coloured patterns, a glass jug with some kind of murky squash.

‘Oh, very funny.' She goes over to the fridge and takes out two plates of salad. Not only unappetizing, but ice-cold, too. She casts them onto the Formica – like pearls before swine – and sits down.

I stare at the leathery green leaves, the mound of little cheesy shavings, the aniline colour of beetroot bleeding into a hard-boiled egg.

‘Pretty,' I say.

She glares. We eat in silence.

I chase a baby beetroot round the plate with my fork. The salad is fibrous as well as icy. It sticks in my teeth, gives me toothache. I really hate Fridays.

Denise puts her plate to one side, looks at the clock. ‘Well, I'd better go and get ready. She's coming at seven.'

‘Right.'

‘Well, I don't want to keep her waiting, do I?'

‘Of course not.'

‘There you go again.'

‘I haven't said a word.'

‘That's just it. Silent sarcasm.'

‘
Silent
sarcasm!' I raise my eyebrows, impressed.

She gets up, pushing her chair back noisily against the floor tiles. ‘There you are! That's exactly what I mean!'

I pick a bit of lettuce stalk from my teeth. ‘I don't know why you make yourself rushed like this. Why don't you get yourself something earlier? No need to wait for me.'

‘I'm not starting that. We eat together.' She whacks the plates on top of each other, crushing my leftover beetroot till it trickles its juice down her hand.

‘One night a week wouldn't hurt. Just stick the meal in the oven.' I smile. ‘Unless, of course, it's salad.'

‘There you go again!' She slams the dishes in the sink, runs a conversation-drowning gush of hot water on them.

‘For God's sake, Denise! Just a –'

‘And I'm not putting your dinner in the oven. Ever! Do you hear?' Difficult not to. But I know what the trouble is. Her bloody dad; all those burnt remains thrown at the wall week after week.

‘Okay,' I say. ‘If that's what you want. I was only trying to help.'

But I can't help. Not any more. Once, I could make her laugh. I could comfort her, and she was grateful. Now, everything I say is wrong.

The baby business started it off, I suppose. I didn't think she'd be keen, after what she'd been through. I thought that was the point of getting married – to get her away from all that family stuff; liberate her, give her new experiences. God knows I tried. But every month she was there with the calendar, doing the calculations, then crying in the lavatory when she came on. Of course it was my mistake, not taking it seriously. I used to tell her it was ‘early days'. I used to say, ‘let's enjoy ourselves a bit first'. But she'd look at me as if I'd hit her.

I got to dreading it every month when she'd come to me red-eyed, holding a hot water bottle to her belly, saying she wasn't going in to work: ‘It hurts too much.' I don't know what was worse, those awful days when I felt so useless, or the ones that came after – when she'd put on her night clothes as soon as we finished supper and turn off the telly with a meaningful look. She'd pull me off the sofa and rush me upstairs like we had a quota to meet. I didn't always feel like it, to tell you the truth. I wanted to have a drink or two, watch the sport. Not get all hot and bothered at eight o'clock at night. And she was so bloody intense that it was difficult to get in the mood, in spite of the heavy doses of Obsession and the lacy underwear. And as time went on, she got so anxious and tight, she would hardly let me inside her. And then she'd wince and dig in her nails, and I'd shrivel up completely.

After a while she gave up work and took to lying on the bed for hours, staring up at the ceiling, not saying a word. Every evening I'd sit downstairs on my own, propped up on the settee with her brick-hard scatter cushions sticking in my back, just waiting for a movement, some kind of sound from above. I'd watch everything on the box, any kind of rubbish, and read the paper till it nearly fell apart. But she never called to me, never came down. Eventually I started to nip down to the pub for a breather, to speak to somebody who'd bother to reply. She started to say I didn't care. I started to wonder if I did.

Now we only snipe at each other. For some reason, the whole thing's my fault. I don't know – perhaps it is. Perhaps I shouldn't have married her. Feeling sorry for her wasn't enough. But in the early days when she used to lean over my desk with that pile of unnecessary filing and that terrible need in her eyes, I thought I was the one who could make her happy.

I sit at the kitchen table contemplating an Apple Pie For One. I can hear her getting ready upstairs. I can hear the floorboards creak in the lavatory just above me. Now the flush. Now the stomp across the landing. Now the wardrobe door and the jangle of wire hangers. Now silence, while she gets into her dress, wriggling and grasping for the zip.

I open the packet and take out the pie. It smells stale. The apple filling is smooth and boiled-down, like jam. Cheap jam, too: all sugar, no fruit. But I'm hungry, so I'll eat it all the same.

Now I hear the sound of the dressing-table drawer, the one that sticks and then comes free with a jerk, sending all her little bottles rolling around inside. She'll be sitting in front of the mirror, now, staring at her face, thinking she's too pale. Then on it'll all go – basecoat, topcoat, gloss varnish, the lot. She'll be stretching her face in all directions, opening her mouth to do her eyelashes, munching at a tissue to wipe off her lipstick, brushing and drawing and painting until she's satisfied.

I eat my pie in silence.

Now she's up again. More stomping, harder this time with her heels on. Bang of the wardrobe door. Twice. Now the bedroom door opening: ‘Has she come yet?'

‘No.' I finish my tart, throw away the foil dish. Open the fridge.

She's in the lav again. Another flush, hiss of aerosol, thunk of bolt. ‘Isn't she here yet?'

‘No.' I close the fridge.

I don't know why she gets so worked up. It's only a lot of women.

* * *

‘You don't like me going out, do you?' She's come down, looking at herself in the hall mirror, combing her hair. Parting it first one side then the other.

‘Rubbish.'

‘I know you don't.'

‘Then you know wrong.'

‘But you like to go out. Why shouldn't I go out too?'

‘No reason.'

‘It's only for a couple of hours.'

It's usually much longer than that, but Denise has an elastic notion of ‘a couple'. I say: ‘I don't mind. Enjoy yourself.'

‘I suppose you'll be off to the Buccaneer the moment my back is turned.'

‘Maybe. Just for a couple of drinks.' My notion of a couple can be just as elastic.

‘You know, you never ask.'

‘Never ask what?'

‘What we're going to do. On Fridays.'

‘None of my business.'

‘Aren't you curious?'

‘I can cope with the burden of ignorance.'

She throws down the comb. ‘There you go again!'

I suppose it's silent sarcasm, but I don't have to defend myself because the doorbell rings. It's Gill. She steps just inside the door. Reluctantly, as if the house might contaminate her. She's very tall and has a very loud voice, which she uses all the time. It always makes me feel exhausted just to listen. Not that I do. But Denise is obsessed by Gill's ideas. She's always into some new therapy or other. One week it was a completely raw diet – sunflower and pumpkin seeds. We couldn't even eat bread. Luckily Denise didn't like it any more than I did, and we were back to cold meat salads in a trice. I don't think Gill could have stuck with it either because they all went for a carvery two weeks later. Roast beef or turkey with a choice of six veg. Traditional veg, that is.

Gill ignores me. ‘Okay?' she says to Denise, jingling her car keys.

‘Hello, Gill. How are you keeping?' I wave to her from the sitting-room door with a can of beer I've just opened.

‘Fine, thanks.' She can be terse when she wants to. But after the door is closed I can hear them both laughing. Gill's telling some anecdote. I can't hear the words, but I can imagine the sort of thing she's saying. I hear the car door slam.

I hate being alone in the house. My day crowds in on me. I don't know why I go on doing this job; it's the same thing over and over again. You'd think they'd come up with something original, but I could tell you what's on the bloody forms before I look at them. The boyfriend who smashes the place up. The husband who spends all the giro. The ex-lover who breaks back in and nicks the furniture. Slashed mattresses, water pipes pulled out of the wall, injunctions, robbery, violence, money for crime. I don't know how they get themselves in this state. It depresses the hell out of me. So I think I'm entitled to the odd drink. It's not a lot to ask.

I generally go to the Buccaneer. There's usually someone I know. Mostly it's Nick. He's an estate agent – or rather an estate agent's lackey. Shows people around houses, that sort of thing. Nothing major league. He's talking about his wife, as usual. He hates her, and makes the mistake of thinking the rest of us are interested. ‘She wants me to be there while she paints her flaming nails. Or chats to her bloody friends on the phone for hours. I'm not having that, Phil. Understand me? Understand what I mean?' Nick's a bore. And a drunk. I don't know why I put up with him. I order a couple of whiskies and settle down for the night.