To Heaven by Water

by Justin Cartwright

  ‘Jesus, Robin.’

  ‘What?’

  He looks up, surprised, unused to being interrupted.

  ‘We were young once. What’s happened to us?’

  ‘Sorry, old chum, I’ve become a fantastic fucking bore, haven’t I?’

  ‘I’m not saying that.’

  ‘I am. I’m a fantastic fucking bore. Let’s go and have a drink.’

  As they walk to the pub, David takes Robin’s arm for a moment, feeling a need to reassure him.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Davey; when Val left me it hit me hard.’

  David squeezes his arm again briefly.

  ‘I understand.’

  The sun is shining through the Edwardian glass in the windows of the pub, so that the light divides into discrete and variegated shafts, which strike the beer glasses, causing them to glow or brood, depending on the depth of the remaining beer; the refracted light from the glasses falls, in turn, on the scuffed and world-weary tables. The whole thing forms a chiaroscuro, familiar at a very low level to anyone who has ever been in a pub. The place is empty, apart from three young men in those slightly too small and slightly too rumpled business suits that make them look as though they sleep in their cars. They are talking about football.

  David wonders, as the barman pulls two pints, if it’s worse to be left by your wife than to be widowed. Being left probably casts a retrospective doubt on your abilities as a lover, or even as a human being, whereas bereavement attracts sympathy and a certain ambiguous respect, as if death is in this way a test of mettle.

  He wants to talk to Robin frankly, but he cannot because Robin is holding his son Ed hostage.

  5

  Robin’s secretary, Mandy, is about fifty-five, devoted to him, of course, but prone to a little ironic eyebrow twitching when he is too demanding. These facial antics suggest that she sees him as a lovable baby, although she once told Ed that he had a very short fuse – tantrums, throws his toys out of the pram, that sort of thing.

  ‘He wants to see you at eleven,’ she says.

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  Ed feels a deep unease. He’s probably protected in some way by the fact that Robin and Dad go back a long way, but still he passes the next hour unable to concentrate on the material facts of Fineman versus Brent Council. He is supposed to be preparing the brief for counsel, one of those barristers who is happy to paddle in very shallow waters. In this case Julius Fineman has refused to pay increased rates to Brent on a point of principle. The barrister is to get an injunction from the High Court to stop the Council distraining his goods. It’s pathetically small beer. But Ed likes Mr Fineman, a pharmacist, who has been deprived of business because of a needless traffic rerouting which prevents his elderly clientele reaching him, for fear of their Zimmer frames and disabled buggies being crushed by twelve-wheeler trucks. His shop, now isolated on a sort of island in the North Circular, has a very old-fashioned smell as though Mr Fineman is making his own potions, practising alchemy. Also, Ed likes his Romanian assistant, whose face is an advertisement of lasciviousness, and whose very thin legs appearing from beneath a white coat proclaim a miracle in their ability to support the lavish superstructure. Her name is Olla and she is a flagrantly ambitious economic migrant. She has asked him about resident status. Every time she talks to him in her liquid, confident approximation of English, he feels his cock stirring. He has visited Mr Fineman – only narrowly avoiding becoming road kill – more often than strictly necessary. Mr Fineman has what Ed thinks of as a Jewish characteristic, a willingness, even a compulsion, to steer their conversations into a warm familial direction. He has twice told Ed that he reminds him of his son Erhud, who was only a few streets from a Hizbollah rocket in the town of Haifa two years ago; the rocket, which blew in his son’s windows, is living proof that there is evil out there. Olla hovers in the background of these conversations and they exchange complicit glances. Should he be encouraging Mr Fineman in his windmill tilting because he likes seeing Olla? Obviously not. But Mr Fineman is resolutely determined on a showdown with the council, and Ed feels exonerated.

  At eleven he crosses to the reception where Gloria rings through. He may proceed. He knocks on the heavy door that guards Robin’s office.

  ‘Come.’

  Robin looks up briefly. He takes at least half a minute going through his papers. Then he removes his reading glasses and motions Ed to a buttoned chair. His desk is vast, like the desk of an aircraft carrier, and covered in red rococo leather; objects from golf tournaments and legal conferences litter the surface. On the walls are botanical prints of anonymous fruits and flowers and, in some dark shelves, leather-bound legal books. He reaches behind him and produces a cut-glass decanter and two glasses. He places them on the desk, as if he is conferring a sacrament.

  ‘We’re celebrating,’ he says finally.

  ‘Oh good. What are we celebrating?’

  ‘Eddie, I am today, on behalf of the partners, offering you a partnership in this firm.’

  ‘Good God. How amazing, thank you.’

  Robin passes him a glass of sherry.

  ‘It’s traditional. I take it you accept?’

  ‘Absolutely. Yuh, yuh. Thank you. I’m sorry if I don’t sound grateful; I’m stunned. Thank you.’

  ‘Here’s to our newest and youngest partner. Rosalie will be pleased, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, she will. She’ll be really chuffed.’

  ‘That’s good. You had better warn her that you’ll be working hard.’

  The sherry contains a kind of oily gravitas, as though its sole purpose is to solemnise. You wouldn’t actually drink the stuff for fun. I have been transubstantiated by taking a sip. Robin explains to him how the partnership accounts work. He is a non-equity partner at the moment, possibly for a year. He will receive one per cent of the profits in the meanwhile and he will receive a large increase in his basic salary. Robin speaks on the phone. In a few moments the other partners file in. They congratulate him. They are not rowdy people – there are six of them, two of whom are women – and he wonders if he hasn’t been inducted into some kind of sect: they all look mad. Now Robin is standing; he beckons to Mandy, who brings in two bottles of champagne; she seems to be wonderfully and naturally delighted, which chastens him. She takes charge of bringing in some chairs. When she says, ‘Somebody’s got to sit on the pouffe,’ there is nervous hilarity. It’s all so fucking English and stultified. Still, he is delighted, although he wonders if he hasn’t had preferential treatment: Robin reveres Dad. Many people do, although it’s hard to know exactly why. When he was on television he acquired a certain fame, but it was clear to the young Ed that the people out there saw him as far more than a newsreader and occasional correspondent: they believed that he knew things about the inner workings, although if he did he never let on. Women liked him, too, and it was difficult for Mum. She told him once that when they went out to any television occasion woman would stand right in front of her in their eagerness to talk to him. There is no sisterhood, she said.

  He’s drunk two or three glasses of champagne by the time the partners are shown out again: Fineman versus Brent will have to be put on hold.

  ‘Will you ring Rosalie?’ Robin asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Use my phone.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  Robin steps out in the direction of reception.

  Rosalie sounds a little flat. She’s on her way to the gynaecologist again, to discuss IVF, which they now think is their only hope.

  ‘I’ve been made a partner.’

  ‘Good God. Congratulations. Are we rich?’

  ‘Not yet. But we’re doing well.’

  ‘Why are you whispering, baby?’

  ‘I’m in Robin’s office.’

  She’s taken to calling him baby, which he finds a little strange. But he hears lots of people doing it; the language of endearments changes fast.

&nb
sp; ‘Can we celebrate?’

  ‘Let’s do it tomorrow. I have to go with my new colleagues for a few drinks.’

  ‘Lovely. All right. You are a star.’

  He feels his deceit clamp heavily on his heart. He and Alice are having a quick drink; it’s always described as a quick drink as if to take the sexual possibilities out of play, but both of them know where this is heading. Back at his desk he signs various bits of paper, without really knowing what he’s signing, and then goes back to the Fineman papers, which Alice has prepared for him. She emails: CONGRATULATIONS. You’ve joined the grown-ups. Hope you can still come out to play. He replies: Quick meeting at six-thirty as arranged, Miss Dugdale. She replies: Yes, sir. I will report for duty at the Coach and Horses, ready for action.

  He deletes everything from his screen as fast as possible.

  Soho has always had anonymity and tolerance. He thinks, with gratitude, that the people walking up Old Compton Street couldn’t be less interested in him and Alice. He cuts through past Foyle’s and under the arch and into Soho itself. The pub is always busy at this time with a democratic mixture of post-production folk and graphic folk and folk who work in publishing, as well as a few film technicians, comedy writers, actors and voice-over people. You sometimes see well-known old actors and weather-beaten directors who haven’t worked for years. They never quite lose their brittle vivacity, at least in public. He takes off his tie as he enters the pub. Alice is sitting in a booth and he slides in next to her. She has loosened her dress in some way so that the thin straps of her bra are visible on her shoulders. Her lips have a lot more shine than when she was sitting in her hutch at the office and her dark hair is a little tousled, so that a few artfully stray locks, previously under strict legal control, fall over her left eye.

  She kisses him formally on the cheek.

  ‘Congratulations. A partner, wow. How does it feel?’

  ‘I feel a little queasy. I should, of course, be overjoyed. Maybe I am. What’s that fizzy stuff?’

  ‘I ordered a bottle of champagne.’

  ‘I thought it looked a bit like champagne. I’ll pay.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s my treat.’

  They clink glasses. Already half drunk he looks at her and decides to kiss her. His new importance impels him. Her tongue enters his mouth briefly and her hand goes to his thigh.

  ‘When we’ve finished this, will you come to my place?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To fuck me.’

  ‘Fine, as long as it doesn’t go any further.’

  She holds his thigh firmly now, her fingers working insistently. He has a disturbing thought: this partnership and the promise of money has tipped him over the edge. He would never have kissed her if he hadn’t felt a surge of approbation. He understands why hideous oligarchs have beautiful women in tow; the power of money admits them into other people’s lives. Alice, he realised some time ago, is fully conversant with the male sensibility. Strange that all the male words for sex are transitive: fuck, hump, screw, shag, while all the polite ones are intransitive: make love, sleep together, go to bed. To fuck me, she said, declaring herself the object. In this mood of elation, caused by the unjustifiable sense of entitlement, he can’t wait to go and be utterly transitive. And he needn’t feel too guilty about it, because there are no finer feelings involved. So he tells himself. As they look for a taxi outside in this late-summer evening, the street is busy: everybody is young and boisterous and untroubled. A party of young women in short black skirts, suspenders and policewomen’s hats goes by, bursting with a chubby, hysterical cheerfulness. He and Alice, off to fuck at her flat in Stoke Newington, are, he is happily aware, in no way remarkable. The sky is cooling to a sort of surly, gaseous unease. When he goes to the country he is always surprised by how dark it gets at night, and pleasantly aware that he is a city boy.

  By then time he arrives home it is nearly two in the morning. Rosalie is asleep and he creeps in beside her. He has a headache and is sobering up. She stirs.

  ‘Hello, darling.’

  ‘Oh Ed, congratulations. I’m so pleased for you.’

  She is sleepy and her body is warm, exhaling her own familiar scent, which he loves. He is suddenly deeply ashamed and frightened.

  ‘I’m so sorry. We got horribly drunk. It’s the tradition, apparently. The big man forced sherry on me and then we went out for a drink. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

  ‘He rang.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Robin.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He wanted to tell me your news himself.’

  ‘He would. He’s got a bit of a thing for you.’

  ‘Bit of a thing?’

  ‘He’s a lonely old geezer since his missus ran off.’

  ‘He didn’t say you were going out to celebrate.’

  ‘No, it was just some of the younger folk. We didn’t tell him. To be honest, nobody wanted to ask him.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘I think it’s about one, one-thirty.’

  ‘You stink of booze.’

  ‘I know. I’m a disgrace. But then I may never be made a partner again.’

  She kisses him and closes her eyes, perhaps in distaste. He can feel her body’s tension, or he thinks he can.

  ‘I know. You are a smelly, disgraceful legal eagle.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He’s longing for the end of this, dying to sink into quietude.

  ‘I went to see Mr Smythson.’

  ‘Oh shit, I forgot you were going.’

  ‘He told me that we should not go for IVF yet. He says it’s too soon to panic.’

  ‘Are you panicking?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  She opens her eyes briefly.

  ‘Good. Well done, darling. Shall we sleep?’

  He’s tempted to make love to her now, but then he thinks that he may have depleted his sperm reserves. He closes his eyes: they feel as if there is some grit in the mechanism. By rights, lying next to the woman he loves, the woman who is going through hell trying to produce his baby, he should be feeling ashamed and penitent. But now that he has negotiated his way without mishap into bed, next to the sleeping beauty, he feels exhilarated, vindicated. Sex with Alice is uncomplicated, it’s fun, it’s natural! Without his really noticing, sex with Rosalie has become something different. It’s become a sort of rite, a marital rite, even an obligation. And – he now sees – it is this sense of obligation which has been playing havoc with their fertility. He has heard many stories of people having difficulty with conceiving children freeing themselves up by having extramarital sex. He sees it as a plank in his defence, if he has to justify himself: I was bonking Alice for my wife’s sake, Your Honour. He laughs. He’s drunk. He’s a man of consequence and Alice is a perk. A friend in the City told him of a theory going round that successful people in business are insatiable in their demand for perks, because it’s the perks that reassure them they are valued.

  He can’t sleep. He gets out of bed as quietly as he can and goes into the spare room – soon to be the nursery, he feels sure, as a consequence of his new potency – and lies down there. Adultery, after three years of marriage. It’s not something to be proud of. Through the wall Rosalie is sleeping in her graceful, composed fashion, as though modelling for Millais, and through here in the future nursery her adulterous husband has a headache and an alarmingly chafed penis. He was sober enough to remember a tip he had read in GQ magazine: always shower after extramarital sex, but never use soap. The alien soapy aroma is the number one mistake, according to GQ.

  Alice was all business, amused and eager. Despite himself he is a little disappointed that she never once said she loved him. If it’s true that the male words for sex convey the sense of motion, Alice achieved terminal velocity very quickly. Perhaps the connection between love and sex has been lost in the five years he has been with Rosalie. Certainly Alice at twenty-four is far more accu
stomed to casual sex than he is. And he knows that, for all their propaganda about men being only a notch or two above the animal, many women seem to be rapt during the act of sex, possessed. Now he feels an ache for Alice, and he wonders if she is thinking of him. There was a moment as she was sitting astride him when he felt she was more or less unaware of him, engaged on a personal journey. But when the moment of ejaculation, that strange transmission of fluid to another body, arrived, it brought him to tears. She kissed him tenderly, and now he takes some comfort from that.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not really crying. I’m just overwhelmed.’

  ‘Do you do this often?’

  ‘Cry?’

  ‘No, sleep with other women.’

  He noticed that, post-coitus, she had gone intransitive and he took this as a good sign.

  ‘You’re the first.’

  ‘I’m honoured. Why did you hit on me?’

  ‘Did I hit on you? Is that what happened?’

  ‘Well, no, I admit, not exactly, but you were obviously up for it.’

  Her lips were slightly bruised, perhaps just the gloss or whatever smearing, but it looked erotic to him. Abandoned. As he was leaving her flat, ridiculously clad in his suit again, with tie, she was sitting on the bed cross-legged in a T-shirt eating a raspberry yoghurt.

  ‘See you in the morning, hotshot.’

  ‘Alice.’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything special. It was a fuck. A lovely fuck.’

  ‘OK.’

  In fact he wanted to say something special, something deeper, but he saw that this was not the moment.

  Other lives. We all believe we could have lived other lives. Dad, he thinks, has been prey to this delusion. Sometimes he talks about Richard Burton: he says Burton consciously lived a life that he knew was ridiculous and dangerous, but at the same time heroic. He sold himself knowingly, like Faustus, says Dad. Now, still drunk, Ed thinks this is profound. Perhaps I have sold myself, too, in more ways than one. And it has taken Alice to make it plain that he could have lived another life. He remembers details as though he had been having sex for the first time: the drops of sweat between her breasts; where her thighs joined the pelvis a little runnel. There was no air in her flat. I have sold myself to Fennell, Dunston and Bickerstaff and perhaps also to the idea of a perfect marriage. Yet it’s sadly predictable: I’m a partner in a law firm and shagging a trainee. But he finds to his surprise that he feels happy, while his wife is only a few feet away, dreaming perhaps of their balletic children. People’s lives, when you get to know them well, are infinitely more complex than you could ever have imagined. And now, even though I have done something reprehensible, morally inexcusable and possibly ruinous, I feel perversely happy.