Neurotica

by Sue Margolis

  Anna took a huge gulp of her spritzer. In a matter of seconds, she'd made up her mind. Apart from getting her husband back, what she now wanted more than anything else in the world was the chance to confront Rachel Stern face-to-face about her cosmetic surgery—not to mention her position on adultery.

  Under normal circumstances the thought of challenging a woman as combative and aggressive as Stern, particularly on live television, would have scared the life out of Anna. Suddenly, buoyed up by fury and adrenaline, the thought thrilled her.

  She would give Bryoney a chance to get back to her office after lunch and then phone her.

  “So,” Alison said when she got back, “what was the other thing you wanted to tell me about . . . ?” She nodded her head discreetly in Stern's direction.

  “Oh,” Anna said, barely hesitating. “Somebody mentioned she gets all that volume in her hair using Velcro rollers rather than Carmens.”

  “Now, that,” said Alison, “is really fascinating. We haven't done a how-to-achieve-perfect-big-hair feature for weeks… .”

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y-T H R E E

  GLORIA, WHO KNEW NOTHING OF HER daughter's present anguish, had spent the evening trying to get a decent shine on Harry's nuts. Harry was due back from Israel on Monday and she thought he would appreciate coming home to a clean and tidy tool chest.

  In common with most Jewish men, a combination of snobbery and utter incompetence caused him to shun virtually all aspects of DIY. Whereas his non-Jewish friends were frequently overcome by the impulse to grout, or the desire to own a cordless drill, Harry had never experienced such impulses or desires. Nor had he ever experienced the delights of a Sunday afternoon spent wandering round local DIY superstores in search of that elusive set of premetric Allen keys. For years Harry thought Texas Homecare was some kind of American neighborhood watch scheme.

  This lack of interest in manual labor was reflected in the pristine condition of Harry's thirty-year-old tool box. It was also reflected in its contents, most of which were next to useless. As well as the nuts and a few unopened packets of screws and picture hooks, it contained a fifteen-year-old tube of Araldite, a pair of needle-nose pliers which were meant exclusively for fine electrical work, a ball peen hammer with a loose head and a hand drill with no masonry bit.

  Gloria had tipped all the screws, nuts and nails into a pair of pantyhose which were brand-new but had turned out to be the wrong shade of oyster, and put them in the dishwasher cutlery container. When she discovered that not even the hottest cycle could make them gleam, she decided to get a duster and some metal polish and buff the lot up by hand.

  By nine o'clock her wrists were aching and her hands were caked in a mixture of black metal oxide and dried polish. She decided to have a break. She would take a cup of tea into the living room, sit herself down and read the deaths column in the local paper. The ridiculous “Mum, we are miffed now you are a stiff” rhymes always creased her up.

  She took a clean cup from the dishwasher. While she rinsed it in boiling water to remove any residual germs, Gloria found her mind wandering back to the night Gerald Brownstein broke in through the downstairs loo window. An icy shiver ran down her back. She thanked God that after telling Julian, who ran her obsessive-compulsives group, what had happened, he had finally been convinced that Gerald was seriously unhinged. Julian had gone to see Gerald's daughter and persuaded her to put him in an old people's home.

  He was now living quite happily in the Sadie and Manny Lever Home in Hendon, and was allowed out only if a member of staff went with him.

  Gloria had been to see him once, but hadn't stayed long. This was because she'd made the mistake of arriving at teatime and one of the residents, a toothless woman called Hettie who could only chew soft food, and who believed she could see into the future, kept coming over to where Gloria and Gerald were sitting and insisting on reading Gerald's fortune in her Alphabetti spaghetti.

  Gloria went into the living room and put her cup and saucer on top of the nest of tables next to the armchair. Having shoved a cushion into the small of her back, she put her feet up on her pink velvet footstool and began turning the pages of the newspaper. Her journey towards the births, marriages and deaths was interrupted by an article highlighting a debate between a handful of Stanmore residents and the council over the fate of six sycamore trees. The huge trees grew in a park which backed onto the residents' gardens. They had no objection to the trees, only to their roots, which they maintained were about to undermine the foundations of their houses. For months, the residents had been asking the council to take some kind of remedial action to prevent the roots spreading any farther, or to cut down the trees. The council were refusing to do either.

  Normally, Gloria would have ignored such an article. At best she would have given it a casual glance. The reason she not only read it, but took in every word, was that she was one of the Stanmore residents. One of the eighty-foot-high sycamores directly overlooked her back garden. Only a week ago she had added her name to yet another letter from the residents' committee, demanding the council act immediately to protect their homes.

  The article ended by saying that the residents' committee had consulted a prominent tree surgeon named Tilda Hasselquist, who said that in her opinion there was no doubt that the sycamore roots were damaging the houses and that the council would be “courting financial disaster if they didn't cut down the trees at once.”

  Gloria smiled. The council would be mad not to give in. She was about to turn the page and resume her journey towards the births, marriages and deaths when she realized that something about the photograph of the sycamores had disturbed her. She folded back the newspaper, heaved herself out of the armchair and held the article under the standard lamp.

  The sycamore which featured most prominently in the photograph was the one backing onto her garden. Gloria was in no doubt about this, because underneath the tree she could clearly see a couple of her Rigby and Peller bras pegged to a rotary washing line. What she couldn't quite make out was who, or what, was crouching in the tree about halfway up, clutching the trunk. It was far too big for a cat. She pushed her glasses onto her head and brought the photograph up close to her eyes, but it made no difference. She couldn't begin to see what the thing could be.

  Gloria put the newspaper down on the chair and went into the kitchen, where she had left Harry's tool chest. Among all his bits and pieces there was a Swiss Army knife which she knew had a magnifying glass attachment.

  Resuming her position under the standard lamp, she held the magnifying glass over the photograph. Her heart nearly stopped. There was one part of the crouching figure which was slightly less out of focus than the rest. She would recognize that hooter, that grin, those spectacles anywhere.

  Gloria was in no doubt. Gerald Brownstein had tunneled out of the Sadie and Manny Lever Home. Not only was he on the run, but he was still stalking her. He had become a tree stalker.

  Gloria ran into the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialed 999.

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y-F O U R

  ANNA'S ALARM WENT OFF JUST after six. For several seconds she lay rigid with terror while her brain struggled, and failed, to work out who and where she was. When, after another second or two, her memory returned, the misery which had become part of her since Dan left let itself in and made itself at home in her stomach. She wanted to be sick.

  She sat up in bed and took a few deep breaths. Her wake-up routine had been the same every day since Dan left. She knew that after a couple of minutes the nausea would pass and that in its place would come anger, desperation and longing. These would be her companions for the rest of the day.

  The only vaguely bright spot in Anna's life was that she had made her peace with Brenda. The moment she had got home having run out on Ed, she'd phoned Brenda to tell her about it and to apologize for her behavior when she came to pick up the kids. Brenda had also said sorry for getting on her high horse. It was then that Anna had begged Brenda to go and se
e Dan to try and persuade him to come home. Brenda, who thought the pair of them needed their heads bashing together and that she should be the one to do the bashing, hadn't taken any persuading. She had driven round to Beany Levine's flat early yesterday evening. The moment she got home, she'd phoned Anna.

  “Well, the good news is, he got the result of 'is chest X ray and it was clear. According to Dan the doctor now thinks the cough was nothing more than a stress thing.”

  “Thank God.” Anna almost wept with relief.

  “Nevertheless,” Brenda went on, “he's still one severely depressed bloke. He's not eating, he hasn't been to work and he doesn't look like 'e's washed for days. I also think he may be hitting the booze big-time. Mind you, that flat doesn't help matters. Talk about a flophouse. Apparently Beany gave up barristering just after his divorce and is trying to make a name for himself doing stand-up comedy. So naturally, he's broke and can't afford a decent place to live—”

  “Yes, yes, I know, but what did Dan say?” Anna sounded almost frantic. “Did you tell him that I still love him—that I want him back?”

  Brenda went silent.

  “Yeah, I told him,” she said flatly.

  “And?”

  “And he says he wants more time on his own. Says he can't bring himself to see a solicitor yet because he still loves you. But he's not sure if he'll ever be able to forgive you.”

  “And that's it? That's all he said?”

  “Pretty much. To be honest, I couldn't get much out of him. I think he'd been drinking all afternoon. He looked half asleep most of the time.”

  “But didn't he say anything about getting in touch, about seeing the kids?”

  “Anna, he really is in a bad way. I blasted in there ready to read 'im the riot act, a bit like I did with you the other night, but he's out of it. He barely knows what time of day it is. I'd only been there twenty minutes and he took himself off to bed. I spent the rest of the evening nattering to Beany. Funny . . .”—her tone lightened suddenly—“I always imagined someone with a name like Beany Levine would be skinny and bald. . . .”

  Brenda's voice trailed off. She sounded like she had something important to tell Anna, but had decided this wasn't the right time.

  “Anna,” she said, getting her thoughts back on track, “I think you've got no option but to do as he asks. You have to back off and give him time to sort his 'ead out. He'll come back. I know it.”

  As Anna lay in bed, those last words kept echoing inside her brain. She supposed she had to live in hope.

  Having allowed her ten minutes' snooze time, the alarm clock went off again. Anna tensed momentarily with surprise, and then reached out to switch it off. She had nearly two hours before she was due at the Channel 6 studio in Hammersmith.

  As she had hoped, Bryoney Keen had barely been able to contain her excitement when she'd phoned her and suggested confronting Rachel Stern on live television. The only problem had been Alex. He had immediately agreed to take part, but his heart specialist had decided the strain of doing an interview in the TV studio might be too much for him. It was agreed instead that he would still tell his story live, but from home, rather than in the studio.

  Anna stood up and put on her dressing gown. As she tied the belt, it occurred to her that between them, she and Alex could be about to destroy Rachel Stern's career. Sex aside, Anna was the closest she'd been in ages to experiencing a warm glow.

  While a makeup girl called Cinders smeared foundation over Anna's face with a tiny damp sponge, Brenda came in carrying a tray of tea. She'd insisted on coming with Anna to the studio to hold her hand.

  “Christ,” she said, addressing Anna's reflection in the brightly lit mirror, “you want to see it out there. They're all running round like tits in a trance. Seems like Stern is stuck in traffic and you're due on in ten minutes.”

  “She'll be here,” Anna said calmly. She refused to be panicked, or to countenance for one minute that her plan to destroy Rachel Stern was about to be scuppered.

  Brenda made a space in the clutter of eyeshadow palettes on the melamine ledge under the mirror and put down Anna's cup. Cinders, who wasn't best pleased about her palettes being interfered with, gave Brenda a filthy look. Brenda matched it.

  At that moment a very flustered Bryoney Keen appeared. She spoke through a haze of cigarette smoke and coffee breath.

  “Thought I'd pop in and explain the running order. Just before half eight we've got the chef doing a gooseberry cobbler. That's followed by a heavyweight interview with a couple of scientists from Imperial College who have isolated the gene which makes women pick their feet in front of the telly and then pile up the dead skin on the arm of the chair, and then it's you. I'll send somebody to fetch you when we're ready. I've just spoken to Rachel Stern on her mobile. She shouldn't be more than a couple of minutes.”

  Then Bryoney was out of the door. Brenda, who wanted someone to show her where to find the loo, chased after her.

  Cinders began taking out the huge heated rollers she'd put in Anna's hair “to give you a bit of volume” and continued with the “less is more” lecture she had been giving before Brenda came in with the tray of tea. This had been precipitated by Anna turning up to the studio wearing her favorite bright-red lipstick, which she thought made her look dynamic as well as sexy. Cinders had tut-tutted as she rubbed at it with cleanser and cotton wool. “Mature women,” she had said with twenty-two-year-old cockiness, making it perfectly clear she was referring to Anna, “need to remember that softer, paler colors are more flattering on an aging skin.”

  As Cinders rabbited on and began back-combing, Anna found herself thinking about Ed and how relieved and grateful she was that he had been able to forgive her for running out on him. When she'd got home after her lunch with Alison, she'd found a huge bouquet of flowers waiting for her on the doorstep. The note with them was very brief. It simply said that he understood that she wasn't ready to start a serious relationship, and that his life had taken a sudden and highly unexpected turn for the better. Tilda, his ex, had been invited to join a team of scientists in a biosphere in Arizona. Her brief was to spend two years creating her own rain forest. She had accepted and now, having undergone a complete change of heart, wanted Ed to have the children. Anna had read the last line so often, she knew it off by heart. “Please don't worry about me, I'm happier than I've been in months. I'll miss you and I will always love you. Ed.”

  Anna dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex and prayed that the mascara Cinders had used was waterproof.

  “Right, that's you done,” Cinders said, giving Anna's hair a final spray.

  When Anna had finished choking, she took a good look at herself in the mirror. The whole effect was hideous. Her face looked pale and washed-out, and instead of hair, she appeared to be wearing an enormous candy floss hat.

  She was about to insist that Cinders redo her face and hair when a young lad in a Channel 6 T-shirt came in to take her onto the set. Ripping off her pink nylon gown, she followed him into the long corridor which led to the studio.

  Anna stood just inside the studio door, watching Heather and Tim finish their interview with the scientists from Imperial College. The set, which Bryoney had explained had been designed to look ordinary and unthreatening and to make viewers feel as if they were sitting in their own living room in Croydon, consisted of two sofas with backs shaped like asymmetrical parabolas. One was deep purple, the other lime green. Between these was a vermilion coffee table shaped like a pair of lips. On the floor were two or three huge vases which looked like old-fashioned metal buckets. Each contained two bright-orange bird-of-paradise flowers and a single green leaf.

  Heather and Tim, on the other hand, looked genuinely ordinary and unthreatening. Tim, in his M&S slacks and pale-yellow V-necked sweater, gave the impression of being a harmless, avuncular chap who played a lot of golf. Heather, who was wearing calf-length pleats and turquoise jacket, was plump and mumsy-looking.

  Heather and Tim shook hands wit
h the scientists and Heather announced a commercial break. While the scientists were having their microphone packs removed, Rachel Stern was brought onto the set. The idea was that Heather and Tim would spend a couple of minutes interviewing Stern about her book and then Anna would be invited to join the discussion. Stern looked stunning in a rust-colored trouser suit which matched her hair. Heather and Tim stood up to greet her. Anna grimaced as she watched Stern give them a haughty stare, flick back her mass of curls and ignore their outstretched hands. Instead she turned towards another lad in a headset and demanded iced Perrier. “And I want it in a glass,” she bellowed, “not one of your frigging paper cups.” Then, her expression about as warm as Anchorage in December, she wiped over her end of the sofa with a handkerchief and sat down. She was clearly ready to do battle.

  Suddenly, Anna was shaking visibly.

  “I think these might make you feel better.” Anna jumped and swung round. She'd thought Brenda was still in the loo. “I went back into makeup and took them out of your bag.” She handed Anna her Denman hairbrush and bright-red lipstick.

  As soon as the ads came on, Dan got up and made himself another mug of tea. He'd been awake since four. By six he'd realized he wasn't going to get back to sleep. Wrapped in his duvet, he'd shuffled into the living room and switched on the telly. He had followed this pattern every morning since moving in with Beany. He would begin the day with At the Crack with a pair of gut-churningly chirpy morons called Tim and Heather. When that finished at ten, he would pour himself his first glass of Red Label. He would then take the bottle and the remote back to Beany's filthy, stinking sofa and spend the rest of the day surfing the satellite sport and movie channels. The only time he got up was to go to the can.