by Peter Barry
‘Kate!’ He wanted to remain reasonable, not to shout, but he was also desperate and angry. He felt pressure inside his head that should be allowed to explode. Putting on her dressing gown, she turned on him. ‘I told you I was going to come off it.’
‘You told me you were thinking of coming off it, and I said we would talk about it.’
‘It’s not your decision to talk about.’
‘Of course it is. We’re a couple, aren’t we? Don’t couples discuss these things together?’
‘Couples are supposed to consider the feelings of their partners, that’s all I know. And you never do that, Hugh, never. You never think about me, only yourself. So what’s the point in talking? Tell me that.’
They were both aware of Tim downstairs. Without ever having discussed the matter openly together, they seemed to have reached an understanding not to fight in front of their son.
Kate stood at the bottom of the bed. ‘I want another child. I’ve told you that so often, but you refuse to hear me.’ Her voice was concentrated, low, precise.
‘I have heard you, I –’
‘Tim is over three now. Even if I became pregnant today, the gap would be at least four years. I don’t want it to be any longer than that. It wouldn’t be fair on either of them.’
‘Four years, five years, it doesn’t make that much of a difference.’ He suddenly tried to be placatory, to outflank her rather than go head-on.
‘It does.’
‘We have to wait, Kate. Just not now. Wait for a year or two.’
She finished tying her dressing gown cord. She stood before him, her hands on her hips, staring at him. Her eyes were cold. She could have been a three year old in the playground, confronting a playmate. The only thing was, she wasn’t playing. She was deadly serious, he knew that only too well. She almost spat the words at him. ‘I want … another child … now.’ She folded her arms across her chest. ‘If you’re going to force me to live in this godforsaken spot, I want to fill some of these bedrooms. That’s why I’ve come off the pill. You have to fuck me, Hugh, then we can have another child. That’s how it works.’ She was blinking back tears. They could have been tears of anger, of sadness, of frustration, he didn’t know. But they alarmed him.
‘We will have another,’ but stubbornly, mistakenly still insisting on trying to get his own point of view across – ‘just not right now. You have to go back to work. You have to get a job. It’s what we agreed. I need your help to pay off the mortgage.’
And suddenly she unfolded her arms and released her fury, leaning towards him, gripping the bedstead, shoulders hunched, head thrust forward like some demented gargoyle on the gutter of a cathedral, spouting venom. ‘I want one now,’ she screamed at him. ‘Now! And fuck the mortgage. It was your decision to move into this …’ Struggling to find the appropriate word. ‘… this mansion, and to saddle us with this huge mortgage. It was nothing to do with me, so don’t try and make out that it was.’
He was pathetically grateful they weren’t still living in their terrace house in Crows Nest, where neighbours could hear every word of an argument. Here, only their son could hear. He leapt from the bed and, still naked, went to his wife. She allowed him to prise her gently from the bedstead and put his arms round her. She lay against him, but stiffly, unyielding. She was breathing heavily. He guided her round to the side of the bed and they sat down next to each other.
‘Mummy?’ A little voice from downstairs.
‘What is it, Timmy?’
‘Can I have some toast?’
‘I’ll be right down and get you some toast.’
They listened, but their son said no more. Her head sank forward onto her chest. He took his arm from round her shoulders, and they sat side by side, hands resting on their laps, without speaking. He knew the issue was still there between them. Nothing had been resolved. He wondered if one of his sperm was heading towards an egg at that very moment, how awful that would be. He closed his eyes as if to prevent such a possibility, but could still picture the bodiless cartoon head, with its long whip-like tail, wriggling its way along the fallopian tube.
Finally she spoke – quietly, head still bowed. ‘If I go back to work now, I’ll never have another baby, and you know that. It’ll never happen.’
Why had they never discussed this before they were married? Why did they have to discover this fundamental truth about each other now, many years after their wedding? Surely they should have sorted this out long ago? He felt this dull ache, an anger brought about by what he perceived as the unfairness of the situation. How was it that he alone was lumbered with paying off their mortgage? She’d promised him that she would return to work to help them out, to share the burden. He wouldn’t have taken on so much debt otherwise. She was being totally unreasonable. But he didn’t know what to say, what he could say, without bringing on another outburst. She wasn’t going to listen, anyway, that was obvious. She refused to listen to anything he said. He knew how stubborn she could be. She was like her father in that respect.
She stood up, her back to him. She ruffled her hair. As she walked towards the door – on her way, doubtless, to get her only child a piece of toast – she stopped momentarily and turned around to say, ‘I’m not going back on the pill.’
As she left the room, he wanted to shout after her, ‘I won’t fuck you then!’ Instead he fell back on the bed, almost winded.
* * *
The rest of the day, Saturday, passed in an uneasy peace or, more accurately, suspended hostilities. Everything lay below the surface, simmering away quietly without requiring anyone to tend, or even pay attention to it. Rather than a husband and wife, they were more like two people in an office, one of whom has been unfairly promoted over the other. There was resentment and anger on both sides.
At breakfast, with Tim sitting between them like some tiny, intricate safety valve, she said, ‘You haven’t forgotten that Jodie and her new man are staying tonight?’
He had forgotten. He groaned, but inwardly, aware that his feelings on this particular matter – the entertaining of her best friend – were best left unstated. ‘When do they arrive?’
‘Sometime this afternoon.’
After breakfast, he started to prepare the French windows for painting. Tim played happily on the lawn nearby. A couple of times he ‘helped’ his father, both of them holding a paintbrush, moving it backwards and forwards across the woodwork. Crouched beside his son, holding him steady with one hand, the other clasping his son’s tiny hand on the brush handle, watching his intense concentration, the tip of his tongue emerging then retreating from the corner of his mouth like some shy, pink creature, Hugh was almost overwhelmed by the feeling that this was the dearest person in his life. He rested his head against his son’s head as they painted, embracing the solidity of the small body.
Kate brought a sandwich and a cup of tea out to him for lunch. ‘You’re not going to be still doing this when Jodie arrives, are you?’
‘Should be finished, but I don’t want to leave it half done.’ She went inside with Tim without saying anything else.
He was tidying up a couple of hours later, stacking everything away in the garden shed, as their guests arrived. They were all in the kitchen when he went inside. ‘Jodie, lovely to see you.’ As he bent to kiss her on the cheek, he wondered if she could detect the insincerity in his voice. ‘My, this makes a change, Hugh. It’s usually Kate who’s covered in paint.’ They stared at each other briefly, each with forced smiles, Jodie possibly wondering what her best friend found attractive about Hugh, and Hugh possibly wondering what his wife found attractive about her best friend. ‘We do look like we’ve been busy.’
‘Just to warn everyone; don’t touch the outside of the French windows.’ He turned to Jodie’s friend, a man who looked ten years younger than the rest of them, almost as if he might be in his final year at school. His hair was thick and gelled into a hedgehog-like display; his face fresh and without any wrinkles.
‘Hugh, this is a friend of mine, John King.’
John sprang forward, seemingly unable to wait to shake hands. ‘Great to meet you, mate.’ His demeanour was boyish, not unlike a puppy that can’t wait to lick your face.
Hugh recoiled, replying with less enthusiasm, ‘Likewise.’ He then added, ‘If you’ll all excuse me, I’m just going to have a quick shower.’
For Hugh, the opening of several bottles of wine made the evening more bearable. Although Kate and Jodie knocked back their wine with enthusiasm, John drank no more than two glasses, and these were interspersed with several glasses of mineral water. At one point, when Jodie and Kate were reminiscing about their childhood, John turned to Hugh and asked him what he did ‘for a crust.’
‘I’m in advertising.’
‘Great business. Have so much respect for you guys. I try and write bits of copy myself, and it’s so hard. So I know what you’re up against.’
‘Oh yes, and what do you do?’
‘Real estate. Have my own small business.’
And Hugh felt an almost overwhelming urge to react as irrationally to the fact Jodie’s man was an estate agent as others did to the fact he, Hugh Drysdale, was in advertising. He wanted to make ill-informed, sweeping statements, condemnations based on hearsay and prejudice, with blind, blanket broadsides that would blow John King and his business clear out of the water. It was an instinctive thing, a dislike based on few facts, but mainly around the feeling that property people were con merchants, and there was little anyone could do about it. They were rich to start with – everyone knew that! – and did virtually nothing to earn their money. They were obviously ripping everyone off.
‘You lot are on a good wicket money-wise from what I hear.’
John laughed. ‘Yes, I admit times are good right now. But it goes in cycles, like everything else, I guess. Who do you work for, Hugh?’
‘I work for an advertising agency. I’m in charge of the Bauer account.’ He was guessing that might interest John. He imagined it would be the kind of car he aspired to (he was surely too young to own one already?), and therefore something they could talk about.
‘Fabulous cars. Love to buy one. I just need to sell a few more properties.’ His grin was so boyish and self-deprecating – so unreal – it made Hugh suspicious.
They went on to discuss advertising, Hugh immediately becoming wary and ready to defend his business. It was often necessary. His profession was regarded as a pariah by many people, and he was frequently required to justify what he did to others, fending off attacks on his profession at various social gatherings. He was passionate about his job, and would argue that advertisers simply told people about the goods they had on offer, that they presented the consumer with a choice. There was no coercion involved. The information was presented in an attractive, possibly humorous, hopefully persuasive, way that showed the product in a favourable light, but it was no more than that. ‘But you tell lies’ was often the response. ‘No, we don’t. We’re not allowed to tell lies. Commercials are taken off air if they’re considered dishonest, or if they offend the public in any way.’ If these people persisted with their accusations, he’d continue along the lines of: ‘We live in a capitalist society, and advertising is a small but essential cog that helps all the other cogs turn. If you don’t believe in advertising, then you don’t believe in capitalism.’ And he’d put on his most charming, inviting smile, and that would generally be that. Sometimes, however, they came back at him with more esoteric arguments, and he’d be ready for those too. They could be about the ownership of goods being a replacement for the acquisition of wisdom; or about the happiness some people experience when they spend money resulting in the stifling of their ability to identify with the beauties of nature. And he’d point out that advertising couldn’t be blamed for such things. ‘It’s a choice people make of their own free will. You’re surely not telling me that I and my colleagues are making your life decisions for you?’ No one was likely to admit to this, and so finally they would be able to move on to other topics of conversation.
He wasn’t, however, of the opinion that he should have to defend his profession against John King, who was surely down there near the bottom of the list of most despised professions – along with lawyers, used car salesmen, politicians and bankers.
‘Tell me, John,’ leaning forward against the table, ‘why do estate agents still insist on underquoting properties? I know it’s to draw in the crowds, but …’
‘We don’t underquote, Hugh.’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’
The estate agent looked taken aback by this unexpected antagonism. ‘Properties are going for above the quoted price because the market’s so strong right now. Demand is pushing up prices. Hugh, it’s hardly our fault if people are outbidding each other.’
Kate whispered to him in the kitchen, when they were serving up a new course and opening more wine, ‘She’s convinced he’s the one.’ Hugh raised an eyebrow. Jodie wasn’t his favourite person, but surely she could do better than that. Maybe John was rich? He’d brought some expensive enough wines with them, that was for sure. ‘She’s very keen on him.’ Left unsaid by Kate was, ‘So be nice to him.’
Hugh was finding the meal too much of an effort. He stared morosely across the table. Kate and Jodie were discussing some childhood friend of theirs who had left her husband for a Russian criminal. They were both laughing. It’s all right for them, he thought, they’re having a good time. How come I get stuck with this baby-faced bricks and mortar salesman?
‘You know what I can never work out …’ A little voice inside his head told him that what he was about to say was not advisable, but it was so immersed in alcohol he could barely hear it. And anyway, he wanted to prick that veneer (or could it possibly be real?) of bonhomie and positivism. ‘It’s how …’ He struggled to search for the words that would express the rest of the thought, but now, quite suddenly, he was unable to remember what that thought had been.
It turned out John was reading his thoughts. ‘How we make so much money? Is that your question, Hugh? We also make a lot of money for our clients, you know.’ John King was leaning in towards him, hands clasped on the edge of the table, an annoying, meaningless smile on his face, like a naughty kid who knows it’s irritating its elders.
How come he looks so damned innocent? ‘Exactly. That’s my point.’ He tapped the top of the table with his forefinger, like a conductor’s baton on the podium, trying to summon his thoughts to order. The sound resonated in the empty concert hall that was his head. ‘You make so much money for yourselves, you just have to be ripping off your clients. You have to be. It’s not possible to make that much money without ripping someone off.’
‘But it is, Hugh. We make a lot of money for our clients, so I don’t think we can be – as you put it – ripping them off at the same time.’ He was like one of those dogs that you kick, and it keeps on coming back for more, wagging its tail, whining plaintively, sidling up to you in a gross parody of devoted subservience.
‘You trot out all those meaningless phrases, “In need of some TLC –”’ He was losing the thread of his argument, if he’d ever had one, and he was finding it hard to concentrate.
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Because you mean … what you actually mean is that the place is falling apart. So why not say that – why not tell the truth?’
‘No one would turn up then and, if it was your house we were selling, you wouldn’t be too happy about that.’
‘I’d be happy if you told the truth.’
‘Is that what you do in advertising?’
‘It is.’
‘You’re unusual, in that case, mate. And, sorry, but I’m not sure that I believe you.’
He stared into his glass of wine, hoping to discover there the thread that would allow him to continue his argument. Jodie leant across and patted her partner’s hand. ‘What are you two discussing so earnestly?’
�
�I think Hugh’s telling me I make too much money.’
How fucking condescending, he thought, treating me like I’m some kid who’s stepped out of line.
Jodie said, ‘But you do, darling, and isn’t that wonderful!’
Hugh saw that his wife was frowning at him, but he was in no mood to be silenced.
‘Oh I think it’s wonderful what John does,’ he said in an effusive, overly sincere voice. ‘I’m full of admiration for someone who’s clever enough to make so much money by selling the great Australian dream.’
‘And jealous, too, by the sounds of it,’ Kate chipped in.
‘Undoubtedly, darling. Who wouldn’t be?’ And he looked around the table with as big a smile as he could muster, but no one returned it, so it must have failed to impress.
‘I think we should go to bed, John. I don’t know about you two, but we’re both tired. It’s been a hard week.’ And Jodie turned to her man for corroboration. He nodded, and they rose from the table. Hugh was a little surprised by the abrupt departure of their guests, yet was still sufficiently sober to appreciate the importance of getting to bed and falling asleep without exchanging one word with his wife. Somehow, he managed to achieve this.
The next day, after a leisurely breakfast that, for Hugh, involved drinking lots of coffee and reading the weekend papers, it was decided they’d all go for a walk on the beach. Hugh claimed there was still some DIY to be done before the end of the weekend, so he was excused. It struck him that everyone seemed quite happy he wouldn’t be joining them, although his son tried to persuade him to change his mind. ‘If you build a sandcastle for me, Timmy, I’ll be able to see it from up at the house.’ He listened to their voices and laughter become more distant, the sounds pulsing strong then faint, turned up and down by a gusting wind along the clifftop.
On their return, Hugh made an effort to be polite to Jodie and John, steered clear of mentioning either advertising or the real estate business, and even made everyone tea. Not long after, holding a tired Tim, he stood next to his wife and watched their guests drive off in John’s new Mercedes-Benz SLK, a car that Hugh happened to regard as a Dinky Toy suitable only for women drivers. Absolutely perfect for an estate agent, he thought.
