‘Except you’ve got a wife to haul you out,’ she said, clutching her spider plants.
So now there were degrees of bad luck, he thought, and some people’s bad luck was worse than others.
‘I’m in this on my own,’ he said sincerely as he watched her walk out leaving an intermittent trail of soil on the red and grey carpet. ‘Debs, your pots are leaking on the company carpet.’
‘What are you going to do? Sack me?’ she asked bitterly as she walked out of the door.
Larry took a deep breath. Hormones, he thought.
He transferred his computer files onto disk, just in case he could use them in the future, and switched the monitor off.
He stretched, and wandered to the door.
There were only a few people still at their desks — the ones who were staying.
He went into Debbie’s office. There was a large cardboard box on her desk full of papers. The plants were blooming out of the top.
‘Have you got anything to put your things in?’ she asked him, looking up. She sounded calmer, he was pleased to hear. He noticed that she wasn’t wearing lipstick, as though she didn’t feel the need to keep up appearances any more.
He could feel the disks in his jacket pocket.
‘They’ll fit in my briefcase,’ he said.
‘Oh. Well, here’s a Boots carrier bag, in case you need it.’
He felt rather touched. ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking it.
‘Well.’ She jerked her head. ‘I’m off.’
‘Are you going for a drink?’
She looked at him and shook her head. ‘You?’
‘No. Thought I’d go home and spend the rest of the day with Bill.’ Make the most of it, he thought.
They stood awkwardly in silence.
Larry stuck out his hand and she took it and laughed suddenly.
‘Look at us, all formal. Been nice working for you,’ she said.
He was surprised. Pleased, too. ‘And you.’
She seemed uncomfortable for a moment. She coughed slightly, clearing her throat. ‘Look, if anything comes up — if you hear of anything, don’t forget me, will you?’ she asked quickly.
Larry shook his head. ‘I won’t forget you, no,’ he said, and meant it.
‘It’s the pits,’ she said, and it brought back the image Larry had had of himself climbing up, seeing out.
He watched her pick up her cardboard box.
As she struggled he felt suddenly strong. Survival of the fittest, he thought with a sudden surge of self-interest. He took the box from her. ‘I’ll help you to the lift,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Larry,’ she said wryly. Probably, he thought, regretting her harsh words to him earlier. As he carried the box, the last of his pessimism and the remains of his dream drifted away.
PART TWO - Two’s Mirth
8
It was sunny and James Wilder was sitting by the edge of an isolated pond with his eleven-year-old daughters. He’d promised to take them somewhere different, somewhere special on their one day out together. The venue was the pond he used to fish in when he was a boy. He’d decided to take his daughters fishing.
As he watched the wind ruffling the water he thought the pond was smaller than he remembered.
There were certainly no fish in it. He wondered whether there ever had been. All those fish he’d caught as a boy...or had that been only in his dreams?
His daughters were being brave about their disappointment. They were sitting behind him on the damp grass, enveloped in a smell of decaying vegetation. The sun had gone behind a cloud again and they were shivering slightly in their summer clothes.
He wondered what he could do to make things better. Too late now to regret the build-up he’d given this — puddle. Lydia had been doubtful about him taking the girls such a distance, i.e. in the car, an old Rover 90. She disliked him taking them anywhere there wasn’t a tube line, in case he decided to drink — yes, that old one — in case he decided to drink and tried to drive them home. She’d doubted that they would like fishing, and he had laughed at her. They were his daughters, too, fifty percent him. Like fishing? It was in their genes. They just hadn’t done it before, that was all.
But he had to admit that they didn’t look happy, huddled together staring at the pond. Again, Lydia had been right.
Lydia was always right. Like Mussolini.
James was dazzled by the brightness of his yellow shorts. He looked at his legs and the hairs were prickling as the muddy water on them dried. ‘Just have a paddle,’ he said to his daughters, trying to raise their enthusiasm levels. ‘It’s quite warm.’
They looked at him seriously, and shook their heads. ‘There might be worms,’ Karin explained, ‘and we don’t like worms, do we, Jen?’
‘No.’
‘Nor maggots.’
James rubbed his nose, aware of the reproach.
‘That was gross, Daddy,’ Karin said sadly. ‘But I’m sorry you nearly crashed.’
‘It was meant to be a surprise,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d like your own fishing box. It’s got everything in it,’ he said, warming to the memory of the pleasure he’d taken in choosing the hooks and the bait and arranging it in the Barbie lunch-box. The scream that Jen had given on opening the tin had damaged his hearing, probably permanently.
‘I don’t think you managed to find them all, Daddy. I think some went under the car seat.’
‘You’re not supposed to stop on the hard shoulder, except for emergencies,’ he said. ‘Flying maggots don’t wash with traffic patrols.’ He found himself staring at the pond, too. ‘I just brought you here because I thought you’d like it.’ He couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice and he felt his daughters move closer together in alarm. ‘Oh, s...’He had been going to say, ‘Sod it,’ but didn’t want them going back to Charles Black with vulgarities leaping like toads out of their little mouths. He couldn’t think of another exclamation beginning with an s, and so he let the phrase hang as he grabbed his polo shirt and pulled it over his head. ‘Do you want another sandwich?’
They shook their heads, two serious girls on a duty visit. His two little girls, who, it was pretty obvious, would rather have been somewhere else. They were getting less substantial, less part of him with every visit.
They’re only yours if you live with them, he thought, and his mind jumped. Which meant they were now Charles Black’s.
He looked at their serious faces. He would have given the world to have them be cheeky to him.
‘We could try fishing,’ he said, in a valiant last attempt. ‘You could hold the maggots in tissues while you put them on the hooks...’Perhaps not. He plucked a blade of grass and sucked the pale green stem. Then he reached for his baseball boots. ‘What would you really have liked to do?’ he asked, pulling them on. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two girls exchange a covert glance. He looked up, curiously. ‘What? You can tell me.’
Jen was reviving visibly. She popped her finger in her mouth and put her head to one side. ‘You really want to know? Really-really?’ she asked, testing him.
He shrugged. ‘Yes. Tell me.’ Talk to me, he thought silently, and remembered it was something Lydia used to ask of him with some desperation.
The girls looked at each other. Jen looked him straight in the eye, not like a child but like an adult, person to person, her small smile crushing his heart. ‘Daddy, we know what we’d really like. Can you take us to get our navels pierced?’
James got to his feet with alacrity, slipping on the grass and swallowing his gut-reaction: No. He lifted his head, glimpsing, with surprise, the Barbie lunch-box firmly shut and nestling in the clover just by the side of them. He felt as if he had just travelled swiftly through time. It made him feel slightly dazed.
He stared at the two hopeful faces. ‘What does your mother say?’
The girls looked at each other again and back at him. ‘Definitely not,’ Jen said, bit her lip and added: ‘Of course.’ She tilted h
er head appealingly at him, her eyes wide.
‘Oh. Then I suppose I should say no, shouldn’t I.’
‘Charles says no, too.’ And her eyes added: but you’re different.
‘Yeah, he would,’ he said, and knew he was playing into her hands. He looked at the ruffled pond and wondered why the idea of fishing had seemed so blissfully simple. ‘I’ll think about it. Would you like to go back now?’ he asked them.
They looked at each other and it was like looking at a composite photograph, different views of the same face.
‘No,’ Jen said.
Karin sat down on the grass again. It, shone silver where it bent in the wind. ‘We’re going to be bridesmaids,’ she said diffidently. ‘At Mummy’s wedding.’
The wedding. Dum-dum. James felt his heart begin to get noisy. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘Are you coming to see us?’
‘Probably. Yes.’ Bridesmaids, he thought. There was no way — had been no way he was going to turn up at his wife’s wedding to Charles Black, the man who was everything he wasn’t — industrious, neat, sober, with a couple of pension schemes on the go and life assurance to die for.
Lydia was a woman of extremes, not the kind of person who would make the same mistake twice.
She’d had it with dreams. That’s what she’d told him. She’d got tired of supporting him through his projects but he’d never got tired of her. Or her support. He loved her. When he’d gone with other women it had only made him love her more. They never lived up to her. He’d tried telling her that.
James’s only real hope now was that in six months she would he bored to death with Charles’s predictability. Charles looked old. Life with Charles might be safe but it would never be exciting.
‘Charles has bought Mummy a diving watch as a wedding present,’ Karin said, breaking through his thoughts as though she’d read his mind.
He felt his heart agitate some more. Dum-dum. A diving watch? Charles Black was taking Lydia diving? Was that going to be their honeymoon? ‘A diving watch?’ he asked, in case he’d got it wrong.
They nodded together. ‘It’s so that Mummy doesn’t have to take it off when she does the dishes,’ Jen said seriously.
James fell back on the grass limply and stared at the dappled sky. He closed his eyes and began to laugh gently with relief.
It seemed so ludicrous that he found he couldn’t stop.
The tears were rolling out of his screwed-up eyes and he laughed louder, laughed until his ribs ached. And he opened his eyes and his girls were looking down at him, smiling uncertainly, and he stopped for a moment but he couldn’t keep it up and he laughed again and they were suddenly laughing with him, delighted, delighted at the accidental joke, delighted to be the cause of it.
And they fell on him, giggling, and he hugged them hard and for a small part of a short day, because he didn’t, any more, ask too much, he knew they were his again.
9
Lisa Ashridge felt very strongly that some people should suffer.
She’d singled out Chrissie’s husband.
Some marriages were made to be broken. It proved the absurdity of the concept.
She signed herself into the East India club as a guest of John King and was given a skirt to wear instead of her trousers.
‘Ladies are not allowed into the lounge wearing slacks. You may change in the ladies’ powder room,’ the porter said, holding it out to her.
Lisa stared at him in disbelief. ‘I’m not taking my trousers off. These are Chanel,’ she said coldly, her hands going protectively into the pale turquoise pockets.
‘Sorry, madam, ladies are not allowed to wear, er, trousers,’ the porter said firmly. ‘Shall I have Mr King come down here to speak to you?’
‘NO! No,’ Lisa said quickly, ‘that’s all right.’ She glanced at the garment that was draped over his arm. ‘What label is the skirt?’
The porter looked inside the waistband. ‘There is no label, madam.’
No label? Lisa chewed the inside of her cheek and pondered on the dilemma for a moment. ‘Give it to me,’ she said.
The porter obliged and she lifted the skirt up and looked at it. She stepped into it and fastened it at the side. Then she carefully rolled up her trousers so they were above her knees and just hidden by the hem. ‘Happy now?’ she asked coldly, and looked down at herself. There was a sort of hump down the front of the skirt which she tried to smooth out with her palms.
‘The zip goes at the back, madam, and the seams are meant to sit at the sides.’ Giving him a look, she twisted the skirt around. She had to admit it did feel better. ‘Where is John?’
‘In the lounge, madam.’
‘Which is where?’
‘Ladies are not allowed in the lounge, madam.’
‘Why not? I’ve got the bloody skirt on, haven’t I?’
‘Ladies are only allowed in the ladies’ lounge.’ He smiled pleasantly. ‘They were only allowed through the main entrance a few years ago,’ he said, to let her know things could be worse.
‘Are men allowed in the ladies’ lounge?’
‘Oh, yes, madam. Men are allowed anywhere. This is a gentlemen’s club.’
‘Okay. Tell him his wife is waiting for him in the
ladies’ lounge.’ She hesitated. ‘No, better not. Tell him a friend...no.’
The porter watched her patiently while she worked out who she wanted to be.
‘I could give him your name,’ he suggested.
She had wanted it to seem like an accident, their meeting, but she could hardly accidentally ask for him to meet her in the ladies’ lounge. ‘Lisa Ashridge,’she said.
‘I’m sure he will be only too pleased to see you.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Lisa said.
*
She was on her second gin and tonic and first dish of cashews when John King came in, not with the porter but with someone else, who pointed her out to him. Rather unnecessarily, she thought, when the only other person in the room was the barman.
He looked at her curiously, and smiled. Lisa saw the chipped tooth, the bane of Chrissie’s life, and saw also why John King refused to get it crowned. It made his otherwise conventional face look roguish; made him seem slightly bruised and Eastender-ish.
‘Hello. You asked to see me.’ He gave her the same easy smile she’d seen in the photographs.
‘You make it sound an unusual request,’ she said, ‘women asking for you.’
She knew damn well it wasn’t. Chrissie had regaled her with stories of people he’d coveted; neighbours, neighbours’ wives, their handymen, their cleaning ladies, their cows, their donkeys...Amazing that doing all that only broke one commandment, as Chrissie had pointed out some drunken evening.
John King laughed and sat down and was brought a drink.
Lisa crossed her legs and saw that the trousers were showing under the skirt. As soon as the barman returned to the bar she reached round and undid the back of the skirt and slipped it off onto the floor and rolled down her trousers. They were hardly creased at all. ‘The skirt doesn’t go, really, does it?’ she said.
She looked at John and waited for his reaction.
John didn’t leap up in shock, or call the porter or do any of the things she would have expected from Chrissie’s description of him. Instead, he picked the skirt up and hung it on the wing of the ladies’ chair next to her.
‘My wife’s done that in her time,’ he said.
Lisa picked up her glass and thought about the remark. Only two sorts of men mentioned their wives in front of a pretty woman who had sought them out: the husband in love and the obsessive womaniser, the one because he doesn’t want to play and the other because he wants to and is setting out the rules from the onset.
Still, even womanisers didn’t want to be cheated on.
She looked up speculatively and John King was still looking at her. He looked as amused as if he was reading her mind and didn’t care what was in it. He looked neither
troubled nor curious.
For a split second Lisa caught a glimpse of why Chrissie was frustrated in her marriage — this was a man so in control that he would allow nothing to surprise him. He was a con-man who got away with it.
Well, she would see about that. ‘I know your wife,’ she said. ‘I know her very well.’
He didn’t reply, but just sat watching her with polite amusement.
‘I know this is going to come as a shock, but we’ve been lovers for some time now,’ she continued, watching him and waiting for the explosion. And waiting...
It was hard to ignore the impression that it hadn’t, in fact, come as a shock at all. He was looking at her as benevolently as if she belonged to the Salvation Army. She suddenly found that from here she didn’t know where to go. She felt slightly uneasy.
‘And what do you want me to do about it?’ he asked presently, pressing the ball of his thumb against his broken tooth.
Lisa felt a flicker of hope. Divorce her, she thought, but perhaps he could think of something better himself, some more personal horror. ‘I just wanted you to know that she was making a fool of you,’ she said.
And then the uneasiness returned as she wondered how she had come to make such a mistake. Despite him keeping his smile in place the temperature plummeted and she knew she would have to find a way to retract. But it was too late.
‘Actually, Lisa,’ he said softly, ‘you’re the one who is making a fool of me.’
‘No, I don’t think —’
‘Coming here where I am known and my wife is known and breaking the rules of the club.’ His eyes rested sadly on the skirt, hanging from the chair. ‘And rules are so important, aren’t they? Aren’t they, Lisa?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now put on that skirt and get out of here.’
Lisa had never been afraid before, but something in his voice made her afraid, very afraid, now.
Striking a Balance Page 5
