by Jan Ruth
Her classically featured face, as always, skilfully made-up, looked away from his and continued chopping. Her nails were painted the same angry red. “Have you eaten?”
“Why didn’t you collect Ollie?”
“Because I was at work,” she answered evenly, in the same condescending tone she always used on Lottie when trying to avert a tantrum.
“You always close the salon on Mondays.”
“Not in December. We open six days a week, it’s our busiest time of the year.”
“That’s right!” Sonia butted in cheerfully, “I’ve never waxed so many bikini lines!”
“Why was your phone switched off`?” Jack said, keeping his eyes on Patsy.
“I forgot to take it with me.”
“Ollie came to the office, we couldn’t contact you.”
“I did tell Oliver, he must have forgotten!” Patsy said, determined not to lose her temper in front of Sonia, who was watching the exchange with avid interest. “Look, I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” she went on, “call Oliver down will you? I’ve made you both a salad.”
“There’s no need. Ollie had a Big Mac and I’ve got no appetite.”
Patsy stopped chopping and slicing then, and for a moment it seemed she held the knife like a weapon, before throwing it down.
“Well that’s just great, Jack!” she said.
The early part of the evening went much the same way. He didn’t often bring work home, but with Jean’s imminent departure and an unavoidable trip to Conwy the following week, Jack felt under pressure to clear some of the backlog. He set up the laptop on the mahogany coffee table in the sitting room because he wanted to watch The Money Programme as well. After a couple of hours, Jack was aware that Patsy was watching him from the doorway.
She looked at the whisky bottle on the table, and the files and computer printouts all over the floor, and folded her arms, “You know you’re a workaholic? Just like your father,” she said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack said, keeping his eyes on the screen, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“It means you never stop thinking and breathing it, the business.”
“I can’t afford not to, and anyway,” he said, finally meeting her eyes, “it’s never stopped you enjoying the profits.”
She slid out of the room with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher. On the one hand she was right, it did take over sometimes, but because he was so conscientious, it was impossible to get off the treadmill. His success was down to him being centre stage; he was always available to talk to, to sort out the problems and the complaints.
Everything relating to property had endured bad press for the last few years, and Jack had found it increasingly difficult to keep ahead of the opposition, to sustain the energy and experience he put into every tiny detail. It was demanding and required a high level of motivation. He needed Patsy on his side, he needed the emotional support and it always affected him when they were estranged from each other. Once she’d left the room and he was reminded of their rift, his concentration evaporated.
After a while, he silenced the television and Patsy’s voice was just about audible on the bedroom telephone extension. The conversation sounded serious, almost like a monologue. If it was a girlfriend or someone from the salon it was usually punctuated with some laughing and shrieking. Resisting the urge to pick up the phone downstairs and listen in, Jack waited till he heard Patsy run a bath, then dived up the stairs and dialled 1471. The usual computerised female voice came over the line, “You were called, today, at eight-fifty-seven p.m. The caller withheld their number. Please hang up. Please hang up.”
Jack hung up. Even the bloody telephone was smugly conspiring against him now. He waited until the blood stopped pounding in his ears, then went into Lottie’s room. She was already in bed, wearing her Barbie pyjamas and talking to Dudley, her toy dog.
“Daddy, can you do Dudley for me?”
For ten minutes, Jack made the toy dog bark and wag its tail and experience things only a real dog could dream about. When he was exhausted from trying to think of new adventures for a basset hound, he pulled the duvet over Lottie and put the dog to sleep in its basket.
“Daddy,” Lottie began, all serious. “Are you cross with Mummy about her hair?”
“No, I’m not cross with anyone.”
“You were before, on the stairs. Fred has seen this sort of thing before and she knows what to do because her daddy is a doctor,” she said very gravely. “Close your eyes and put your hands out, I’ve got something which will help you.”
Jack closed his eyes obediently, until he felt something flutter into his hands. It was a plain brown paper bag. He smiled at her earnest face. “Lottie, there’s nothing in it.”
She looked at him with exasperation, then put the bag over Dudley’s bald muzzle to demonstrate. “Next time you think you’re going to yell you put this over your mouth and breathe really deeply, like this.” She took several deep breaths, her eyes fixed on his.
“Why?” Jack said, loving every moment. Lottie was at her best like this.
She stopped panting and then dropped her voice to an eloquent whisper, “It’s to stop you from hooping and venting.”
Jack laughed at her. “You mean hyperventilating!”
Bored with this line of thought already, she flung her arms round him and covered his face with tiny kisses, begging him for a puppy again. Jack tumbled her about till she was breathless with giggling.
Lottie had been an unplanned child. Sometimes, she was as wild as she could get without being plain naughty, but she enraptured Jack with her odd little ways and her big personality. Lottie always gravitated towards her father, despite his hit and miss discipline, or maybe because of it. If she was ill at school, it was Jack who got the phone call, never Patsy. If she wanted to go swimming, it was Jack who had to take her because Daddy pretended to be a big fish under the water. With Mummy, she had to be ladylike and never, ever scream.
Oliver wasn’t quite the opposite, but he preferred to argue and be competitive with Jack. He used to talk to Patsy, but now he frequently gave his mother the cold shoulder, and at times his attitude verged on total disrespect. Patsy said his arrogance stemmed from Jack being too lenient.
He stuck his head round Oliver’s bedroom door and cringed at the mess. Other than the light from the computer screen, his room was a black pit. Oliver’s face was just discernible, intent on the complexities of Cyber City Cops. Unlike his sister, he had not inherited his mother’s colouring, and was closer to Jack in terms of his hair and eyes, only Oliver’s hair was bright blonde, slicked down with too much gel.
“Homework all done, Ollie?” Jack said.
“No, there’s no point.”
Jack sat on the unmade bed with its jumble of clothes and compact discs and his foot came into contact with a beer can, and he suddenly realised that he was only on borrowed time with Dudley the dog. This stuff was much harder.
“Why’s that then?” Jack said quietly, not really expecting to find out.
“I want to do property management with you.”
Jack was puzzled at how adamant Oliver had become over this. In truth, he didn’t have a problem at all with his son wanting to be part of the family business. Despite his faults Oliver had exactly the right kind of personality and skills for the job, and it would do him good to acquire a few rough edges from being in the front line. Oliver had had education rammed down his throat since he could walk and talk. Ryle’s Park had been Patsy’s idea, but Jack had always expressed reservations about private education. He just didn’t trust the privileges money could buy, and now it was as if Oliver had reached saturation point with it all and was standing at the crossroads, looking for an alternative.
“Is all this because you think it would be an easy ride, being the Managing Director’s son?”
“No,” Oliver said sullenly.
“Okay
then, I’ll think about giving you an interview,” Jack said, and placed a book about simultaneous equations in front of him. “In the meantime, it doesn’t give you license to sit and do nothing with an expensive education.”
“Yeah right,” Oliver said and rolled his eyes.
“I mean it, Ollie. You don’t get past the door if you can’t apply yourself to a few exams.”
Nothing could have been further from the truth. Of all Jack’s staff, there was only Jean who had any formal qualifications, and yet, it was Clare and Jon who had the qualities he most admired. They both had the kind of skills no one ever sat exams for; they had empathy and humility, only listened with half an ear when he was in a bad mood, and enjoyed the same sarcastic sense of humour.
Jack’s ideas of interviewing prospective staff were unorthodox. They consisted of a pub lunch, concluded by half a day of following him around the office and out on the road, with Jack landing the unsuspecting candidates in various difficult situations. If they could think on their feet and laugh at his jokes, he usually employed them. Oliver would be a part of this team. He had a lot to learn from them, but Jack reckoned it would be an interesting two-way process.
Jack sat in the semi-darkness of the conservatory until it was past midnight, staring at the gently floodlit garden with its oak trees and the rolling lawn that edged the golf course. When he couldn’t stay awake any longer, he climbed the stairs.
Patsy was flicking through a magazine on the bed. She was wearing his dressing gown and looked up with reproachful eyes when he entered the room. With her clown-like haircut, she looked naive, vulnerable and he just wanted to hold her. He wanted her to hold him.
“You don’t like my hair, do you?” she said quietly.
“I loved it the way it was,” Jack said, kicking his shoes off, “I wish you’d talked to me first though.”
“You mean I need permission to get a haircut?”
Jack sat on the bed and put his watch and a lot of loose change on the bedside table. “No, course not, it doesn’t matter,” he said, not wanting another fight, and pulled her into his arms. “It’ll grow on me. Hopefully, it’ll grow on you.”
But she didn’t smile at this. Jack slid his hands under the dressing gown, and hung his head over her shoulder. “Pats, I’ve had a really lousy day at work,” he said, feeling the soft warmth of her scented and pampered body under his hands. He missed the luxurious feel of her hair, not being able to bury his face in it. “I need to talk to you.”
“Well I don’t want to,” she said firmly, and began to unbutton his shirt and tug at his belt, “I don’t want to talk about your day at work. I want you to make love to me.”
For a second, Jack was a little surprised. It was rare for Patsy to initiate anything sexual, and she would never be direct enough to say it, despite her up-front behaviour the rest of the time. It was always Jack who had to make the running, to second guess her feelings, and even after twenty odd years of marriage, he still got it wrong. This aspect of her used to fascinate him, but he was beginning to grow weary of it. Maybe it was the onset of middle age.
Patsy shrugged the dressing gown off and pulled him across the bed, kissing him and folding her legs round him. His wife was so beautiful; it used to be possible to feel aroused just by looking at her. Once upon a time, she only needed to laugh and smile with him, and throw her arms around him. It had been enough. Now there was something different in her demeanour, something desperate. Sexual dominance didn’t faze Jack at all, but it didn’t really sit well with Patsy, she lacked the passion and the sensitivity to carry it off. Whatever it was, he couldn’t respond to her. Her physical attraction wasn’t enough anymore. There was a big gap between mind and eye. The more Jack wondered about it, the less inclined he felt to make love.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered eventually.
“Hell I don’t know, I just feel a bit stressed and I’ve had too much to drink, that’s all.”
“Well it’s never bothered you before,” she said starchily, and extracted herself from his arms. “You’ve been out of it on whisky and it’s never made any difference. You and Danny used to joke about it!”
“My brother is half my bloody age!” Jack said, wondering why she brought his brother into a conversation like this. “What is this? Go on, have a good go at me. Make me feel as shitty as possible.”
She turned her back on him then, which was worse. After a few minutes, he said, “Pats I’m sorry. I do love you.” When she didn’t reply, Jack resigned himself to staring at the ceiling.
*
As Tuesdays went, it was the worst Jack could ever remember. It seemed that barely an hour had passed before he was woken by the sound of Patsy retching in their en-suite. She staggered back to bed and lay curled on her side, this time facing him. He rubbed his face and put a hand out to her, noticing that the clock said five-thirty. “What’s the matter, Pats?”
“Jack,” she whimpered, “Get me a cup of tea will you? Please... put sugar in it.”
Although he was a light sleeper, it took Jack an age to come round and find his way blearily into the kitchen. While he was waiting for the kettle, he was struck by the idea that she may be ill, and felt stupid for not having thought of this before. Worried sick in case it was terminal, he went slowly back up the stairs, convinced he was right because it so obviously explained the change in her behaviour. Patsy gave him an odd look when he started to tell her about their private health plan.
“Jack! I don’t need to go into hospital,” she said irritably, removing his hand from hers so she could drink the tea. “For goodness sake it was just something I ate.”
The colour returned to her face, and she began to get dressed, pulling on the white tunic she always wore for the salon. Then she went to sit at the antique pine dressing table, which looked like the cosmetic counter in Harrods, and began to apply her natural look.
“Is that a good idea?” Jack said from the en-suite, “Going in to work?”
“I’ve told you, we’re fully booked,” she said, deftly applying lipstick before snatching up her handbag. “I’ve got appointments an hour earlier than usual. Will you be a love and drop off the children for me?”
Jack said nothing and started shaving. When the foam gradually disappeared, his face still looked white, but then he’d not had any dinner the previous night and only four hours of restless sleep.
Considering the dawn start, it was difficult to believe he was running late. Oliver refused to get out of bed, and Lottie was a ball of unfocused energy. “No, Daddy not those tights, we’re not allowed,” she said, trampolining across the bed. “Can I have peanut butter and tuna sandwiches today?”
“Lottie, get some clothes on and brush your hair.”
“Can I have Mummy’s big silver hairbrush then?”
“Yes, yes! I don’t suppose she’ll be needing it,” Jack said, sweating by now, looking at the clock and trying to find Lottie’s school uniform. Lottie settled herself at Patsy’s dressing table, smeared her mouth with orange lipstick and pulled everything out of the drawers looking for the coveted hairbrush.
Scattered on the floor, under an assortment of scarves, belts and jewellery boxes lay a small packet. Jack stooped to pick it up and turned it over in his hands. It looked like a pregnancy testing kit.
“Daddy shall I wear my hair in one big bunch or lots of little ones?” Lottie said, frowning at her wild reflection. “Daddy? Daddy?”
Jack slipped the packet into his trouser pocket and pushed everything back into the drawers. On automatic pilot, he drove to Oliver’s school in Adlington, then back to Lottie’s school in Prestbury. When Lottie got out of the car, Jack was horrified to see she had several untidy ponytails sprouting out of her head and Patsy’s make-up plastered clown-like all over her face. She kissed him emphatically. “I love you, Coco. Bye-bye,” Lottie said, in one of her funny voices. “I hope you’ve got that old bag.”
Jack pushed his ca
r well over the speed limit down the winding Cheshire lanes and arrived at the office in a tense state of anticipation. Several people on the forecourt, which was shared with the stuffy solicitors next door, sniggered at him. Totally rattled, Jack allowed himself to be steered to the mirror in the staff room, to discover his face imprinted with dozens of Lottie’s colourful greasy kisses.
“So who’s the appreciative lady?” Clare said, scrubbing at his face with tissue paper.
“Lottie.”
“She’s quite a handful that one.”
“It’s okay you don’t have to be polite,” Jack said, “They always say that at parents’ evening. What they really mean is, she’s very clever but weird, and please can you take her somewhere else.”
Throughout the morning, Jack left three messages on Patsy’s mobile, with no response. When he rang the salon, Sonia told him a tad sarcastically that Patsy was with an important client. Tim, his oldest friend and the accountant for both Redman Estates and Patsy’s salon rang to cancel lunch.
“Come to dinner then, you and Margaret,” Jack said, feeling the little packet under his hand. He felt a desperate need to talk now and Tim would be his only choice.
“I’ll have to get back to you on that one, Jack, Christmas and all that,” Tim said. “Look I’m sorry mate but I have to fly, I’ve got to get into Manchester.”
When he tried the salon again, he had the feeling Sonia was enjoying fielding Patsy’s calls, rather like Jean did for himself. “Sorry Jack, she’s doing a full body wax and a pedicure,” she said, then began reading some kind of diary. “Er... after that she’s got a pubic tint at three and then-”
“A what? Are you winding me up? Look, just put my wife on the phone it’s important.”
After an age of waiting and listening to the background hum of female chattering, Jack hung up, convinced now that she was avoiding him. Determined not to be fobbed off any more, he spent almost an hour fighting every obstacle to get into Bramhall. Every direction he tried there were either queues of traffic, Father Christmas floats or council workers trying to erect trees in the middle of the road.
