My face must have betrayed me (suspicion, accusation, contempt?) for she suddenly leapt to his defence.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t complain; after all, he’s doing it for us. I expect it’s just my birthday. I hate birthdays. I don’t want to be thirty. It seems so old.’
I pointed out that Christopher was forty-one. She said it was all right for men and besides, she was actually going grey. I pretended to stare disbelievingly at her hair.
‘Oh, you can’t see it,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a rinse.’ Her eyes filled with tears and I quickly ordered her a brandy. My poor little love.
24 September
I am trying to get David to come here three times a week instead of twice. He is doubtful: he doesn’t think there’s enough work. I assure him there is, or there could be. I want the silver cleaned, and the windows. I want carpets shampooed and paintwork washed. The whole flat is dingy and I want it to be new and fresh. Perhaps even some interior decorating, could he manage that? A little light painting.
‘You’re just throwing money away,’ he said. He was wearing a tight striped jersey like a fisherman, Hollywood-style.‘The flat’s great as it is. You ought to see how some people live.’
I noticed the hairs on his wrists, on the backs of his hands, as he gesticulated. ‘D’you want the work or don’t you?’ I said.
26 September
The trouble is, I have to work while he works, or he’ll get suspicious. So I hardly see him to talk to, except for coffee breaks and maybe a drink before he leaves. He arrives at ten (I’ve told him anything earlier is impossible for me) and I greet him provocatively in my dressing-gown. It’s a very nice dressing-gown but it doesn’t seem to be working. He grins and says, ‘Morning, professor,’ this being one of our in-jokes, ‘where shall I start?’ and whips into the kitchen before I have time to reply. The washing-up’s done in a flash and he plays the wireless while he does it; he has rubbishy tastes. I sulk in a hot bath and listen to him prowling round the flat with the vacuum cleaner; it purrs under his hand.
28 September
Gemma is not being absurd about age, or else I am. I know how she feels; I identify with her. He must be her age, or thereabouts. I am sixty-three. Is it ridiculous? Yes, of course it is. God is having one of his fiendish jokes at our expense. Why are we cursed to feel young when we are old, or old when we are young? I stood in front of the mirror today, before he came; I inspected my naked body. Pale, flabby and unappetising. We may as well face facts. Atrophied with disuse. Not that it was ever much to be proud of. I have always had to work hard for my pleasures. But this? Insanity. Crying for the moon, no less. An apt metaphor. I looked at the moon last night and I thought, no matter that they have landed on it, it’s still perfect and impenetrable.
1 October
Autumn is making me melancholy. And then I think how feeble of me to be so predictable. ‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’. What rubbish. Season of regrets and non-events, more like. David took the curtains to the laundrette today. What have I done with my life? I prepared a delicious salad and a pitcher of dry martini, his favourite drink. They say hope springs eternal. He came back bored and cross. ‘You know, you’re crazy, paying me to sit there and watch them.’ He couldn’t stay for lunch, he couldn’t even stay for a drink. And why? Because he had an audition.
8 October
Last week was terrible. I was too disheartened to record it. The audition went badly, it seems. (Because I ill-wished him? It certainly wouldn’t suit me to have him leave.) Anyway, he was in a filthy temper all week, breaking things and leaving a ring round the bath and nearly driving me mad by whistling all the time while he dusted. He actually whistles out of tune. I begged him not to but he said he always whistles when he’s depressed and went on doing it, as if I hadn’t spoken. But if I hadn’t been so angry I might have felt sorry for him, he looked so miserable. Like a whipped puppy. The shutters came down over his face and it was sulks all the way. He even dressed for the part: black jeans and a purple jersey, as if he were in mourning for his life, like Masha. I reminded him of that, hoping to raise a smile, but no, not a flicker. He even looked more annoyed that I should presume to be so flippant.
I thought about giving him the sack, in a moment of sadism – or was it masochism? But I didn’t, because if I did, then all the days would be the same. And I was rewarded: today was quite different. He arrived very late, about eleven; in fact I feared he wasn’t coming at all. When he did turn up he had a crashing hangover, so I was able to minister to him. Apparently he’d been drinking to drown his sorrows: he didn’t get the part. I pressed his shoulder as I handed him my patent hangover cure and said, ‘My dear boy, I’m so sorry.’ He looked at me strangely; he felt tense under my hand so I took it away. He said, ‘That’s where you’re lucky, squire’ – he was doing his pseudo-Cockney today, probably in memory of the part he hadn’t got – ‘you’ve got three jobs. Bit of writing, bit of teaching, bit of translating – you’ll never be out of work.’
I pointed out that as I was virtually retired from all three occupations and had never been very good at any of them, I was not much better off than he was. He considered this.
‘I suppose not. Well. That kind of puts us in the same boat then, doesn’t it?’ He downed the hangover cure and mimed an explosion going off in his head. Then he stood up. ‘Right, let’s get on with it.’ And to my amazement he proceeded to clean the flat like an angel once more, silent and thorough, making up for lost time. I offered him lunch and he actually seemed to want to stay, but: ‘I better not. Got one of my more demanding ladies this afternoon – Mrs Salmon – and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
There was something that alerted me (a look, an intonation?) so I said casually, ‘Like that, is it?’
He grinned at me. ‘Sometimes. She’s not really my style but the perks are good.’
I took a chance and said, ‘The perks might be good here too.’
He hesitated. ‘Yeah, I rather thought they might. Pity I’m not more versatile. No offence, you understand.’
‘None taken,’ I said.
1O October
Strange. It could have made an awkwardness, an embarrassment between us, but it hasn’t. He arrived for work today in a positively cheerful, expansive mood, obviously more relaxed with me now we’ve got that out of the way. Typically, he was more interested in my view of him than any disappointment I might have suffered. ‘Did you really see me like that?’ he asked over lunch. (Our first lunch.) I said no, I hadn’t, and that was chiefly the attraction. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘you like a challenge.’ I thought it was rather that I liked an impossibility. I had lain awake analysing why I was not more upset. Adjusted to failure, perhaps, conditioned to expect defeat? Or do I simply prefer the conquest of the mind to the conquest of the body? It yields a more refined satisfaction, no doubt of that, and lasts longer. Now that he trusts me not to pounce he won’t be so wary and I shall have more scope.
‘Only it has happened before,’ he said. ‘I mean people getting the wrong idea. I’m only sorry I can’t take advantage of it.’
I asked why he was sorry.
‘Well, it would be an extra dimension, that’s all. It’s always flattering if someone fancies you. Like being up for a part.’
‘You got the part with Mrs Salmon,’ I said.
‘Oh, that. Yes. Can I have some more quiche?’
‘Help yourself.’ (He eats as though he’s starving.)
‘Yes, I got that part all right and it looks as if I’m in for a long run. Only she must be fifty if she’s a day.’
‘And you like them younger.’
‘I don’t mind. Actually, I find the older ones are often more switched on. Last fling, I suppose. Anyway, this one is. Her old man left her pretty well off and she’s got nothing else to do. D’you… like women as well?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Only I was wondering… who’s the one in the silver frame? Every time I clean it I have a good l
ook at her. Is she one of yours?’
‘My niece.’
‘Oh.’
‘Tell me more about Mrs Salmon. If she’s so keen and she’s rich, couldn’t you make a living there? I mean, why bother with all this cleaning?’
He laughed. ‘I couldn’t stand the pace. Besides, this way, if I get fed up I can just piss off.’
He would too. He looked so pleased with himself. I had forgotten the cruelty of youth. Oh yes, I’m well out of this one. Definitely not a nice young man. But then I never thought he was. Just attractive. He would wreak havoc and disappear. Like a hit and run driver.
12 October
Telephone at dawn. Well, half past eight. Groping for the receiver, blind, in the middle of the night, it seems, till I get my mask off. ‘Yes?’
‘Alexander Kyle?’
A clear, light woman’s voice, unknown. Not Mrs Salmon, surely, in a jealous rage. She would sound more robust and indolent. Peach-coloured and peach-scented flesh with a voice to match, I feel. ‘Yes?’
‘This is Catherine Meredith. I’m sorry my husband won’t be able to work today, he’s ill.’
‘Oh.’ (What?) ‘Oh.’
‘I’m sorry to ring so early but I’ve got to take the children to school.’
(Children?) ‘Oh. Yes, of course. Is he—’
‘It’s nothing serious. He’ll be back next week. But I’m sorry to inconvenience you.’
She’s gone. No goodbye, just a click. And I don’t trust people who apologise so often.
So now I’ve got all weekend to think about it. David married. David with children. Why didn’t he tell me?
15 October
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I said. It was all I could do not to laugh when I saw him, actually. He had a black eye, making him look more like a boxer than ever.
‘Tell you what?’
‘About your wife.’
‘Christ, I don’t know. What’s the point?’ He examined the eye in my kitchen mirror. ‘God, I look awful. What a bitch. Suppose I’d had an audition.’
‘What happened?’ I asked with interest.
‘She threw a bloody vase at me. I usually duck, I must be getting slow.’
‘Does that happen often?’
‘Now and then. When she feels like it.’
I started to make coffee since he seemed disinclined to work. ‘Tell me more.’
He sat down and lit a cigarette, still gazing morosely at his damaged reflection. ‘Well, she found out about Carol – Mrs Salmon. She went through my wallet when I was asleep, looking for money, I suppose, she always says I keep her short, and there was this photo. I meant to throw it away but I forgot. So we had a flaming row and she hit me with the vase and chucked all my clothes out of the window so I couldn’t go to work.’ He looked at me accusingly. ‘I suppose you think it’s funny.’
I hastily composed my features. ‘Just a new angle on marriage.’
‘Don’t you believe it. Happens all the time.’
I said humbly, ‘I meant new to me.’
16 October
All the same, there was something not quite right about yesterday’s story. Anyone else might have believed it but to me, as a trained observer of human nature, there was a distinctly phony smell, an aura of duplicity. Why should Mrs Salmon give him a photograph when she sees him twice a week? Even if she were sentimental enough to do so, why should he keep it in his wallet and ‘forget’ to throw it away? He’s not sentimental. And his wife, that cool little voice on the phone, ‘This is Catherine Meredith.’ She didn’t sound like a violent, jealous harridan. Not at all the sort of woman to throw vases at eyes and clothes out of windows. But the injury was real enough, so how did he get it, if not from her? And why did he get it, if not because of Mrs Salmon? Either way, why couldn’t he work? There’s a piece missing somewhere, I think.
17 October
I tried probing a little today. Not easy. He veers from rank exhibitionism to extreme taciturnity. Yes, he married young, at twenty, to be exact. He didn’t know what he was doing. She was five years older, she cradle-snatched him, got herself pregnant on purpose. The last thing a young actor needed, to saddle himself with a wife and child, and then another child. No wonder they were always broke.
I asked if his wife could work at all, now the children were at school.
‘She does a bit. She makes bags and things. Sells them to shops sometimes. Sort of cottage industry. It might be all right in the Hebrides, it’s bloody ridiculous in Kentish Town.’
We were very sulky today. More sinned against than sinning, and all that. Well, at least I know where he lives.
19 October
I was in the bath when Gemma rang. He knocked on the door. ‘Your niece on the phone.’ I asked him to tell her I’d ring her back. When I came out he was waiting for me. ‘She’s got a lovely voice,’ he said, and grinned at me. Wickedly.
20 October
Gemma claims I’m neglecting her.
‘Who was that young man I spoke to?’ she asked. ‘Are you up to something?’
I pretended to be affronted. ‘My dear Gemma, whatever do you mean?’
‘I mean Oswald and Miranda, that’s what I mean,’ she said, quite briskly.
‘I stand on the fifth amendment,’ I said, ‘and that was my new domestic you spoke to. My theatrical Jeeves.’
‘Of course.’ She sounded quite excited. ‘I’d forgotten you were getting him. Who is he, what’s he like?’
‘His name is David Meredith and he’s quite adequate, thank you.’ But my last words were drowned: she positively squealed.
‘David Meredith! But he’s famous.’
‘Come on, Gemma, don’t exaggerate.’
‘But he is, I’ve seen him, he was in Calling All Cars.’
‘And that makes him famous?’
‘Oh, you,’ she sighed, ‘don’t you ever watch television?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘Well, he’s very good. What’s he doing now?’
‘Cleaning my flat.’
‘No, apart from that.’
What might I have said? Having rows with his wife. Screwing Mrs Salmon. Rejecting my elderly advances.
‘Nothing much,’ I said.
22 October
Now I have a choice. But I still don’t know enough about him. I studied him today, very dashing in a bottle-green jersey and corduroy trousers the colour of toffee.
‘You know your trouble,’ he said conversationally. ‘Too many plants. They gather dust.’ He flicked his duster over their leaves. ‘To say nothing of all those books, but I suppose they’re sacred.’
‘My niece is a fan of yours,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, she’s seen you on television.’
He had his back to me, annoyingly. Was there really a pause or did I imagine it?
‘Then you should introduce us. I need all the fans I can get.’
24 October
I tried to explain about Gemma. He listened with extreme concentration, never taking his eyes from my face. He might have been learning lines: I could see him memorising everything I said.
I stopped. There was silence.
‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘It’s odd. I get the feeling you’ve left something out.’
I shook my head, shrugged.
‘Oh, it’s all right on the face of it,’ he said. ‘Bored married woman, two kids at school, devoted husband too wrapped up in his work – oh yes, I know all about that. Only there’s something missing.’
I opened my mouth to protest my innocence. He misunderstood me.
‘No, don’t tell me. Let’s be subtle. I like a good mystery.’
He’s more intelligent than I thought. Dangerous. I don’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed. Now we are both suspicious, circling round each other and sniffing, like two dogs in the park. He seemed very cheerful after this exchange, let me pour him another drink while he went on polishing the silver.
�
��I know,’ he said. ‘I’ll just ask you questions and you answer them. Any way you like, of course. I’ll draw my own conclusions.’
I said all right, if that was how he wanted it.
‘The husband,’ he said, as if Christopher had no name, which pleased me. ‘Was he her first lover?’
‘Yes.’
‘Successful?’
‘Presumably. She couldn’t wait to marry him.’
‘And since then… anyone?’
‘For her, no. For him… I very much doubt it.’
‘What’s he like? Oh, I know you hate his guts, that’s obvious, but what’s he really like?’
I tried to be fair. It seemed important if we were planning a campaign. (Are we?)
‘When I first met him, very diffident. Even charming. Romantic, idealistic. The last few years… much tougher, rather pompous. Too successful for his own good. He’s got the upper hand.’
‘You mean he’s got out of control. No, don’t answer that. I’m just making notes. Is he a kind man, do you think?’
An Evil Streak Page 6
