Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘And you can bathe by candlelight, if you like.’ She pointed to a brace of candles, set in wrought-iron candlesticks and arranged on a marble shelf beside the bath. ‘They’re safe, too. They can’t burn down or catch fire. There’s also a stereo system, if you fancy a bit of music. The CDs are in that rack there – everything from grand opera to pop.’

  He tried to imagine bathing to a soundtrack of Verdi or Wagner, but the imaginative leap was too great. He couldn’t even get radio reception in his basement bathroom at home.

  ‘Towels in here,’ she continued, opening yet another cupboard to reveal a stack of towels so extensive they would have done credit to Harrods’ Linen Department. Bath, candles, towels and walls were all in the exact same shade – what he’d describe as brownish, although no doubt the colour consultants would use more resonant words.

  ‘And if you need a robe, there’s a couple hanging on the door there – his and hers.’

  His and hers. If only. There was room for two in the bath; room for four in the bed; ample room for someone special in his heart. Yet never had he felt so achingly alone; so far from everything familiar and safe.

  ‘I’ll just fetch some pyjamas and shirts and stuff. Anything else you want?’

  Yes. He wanted to be back in his tiny Vauxhall bathroom, with its scuffed lino on the floor, its stained and cracked white bath, and to be sleeping in his own small, cramped divan, with its lumpy mattress and saggy springs.

  Christine returned with a pair of real silk pyjamas, four poncy-looking shirts, a cashmere sweater and a pair of sleek white trousers that would make him look, frankly, gay. ‘I’ve brought the smallest things I could find.’

  ‘Thanks a lot!’ he bristled, feeling himself instantly shrink to dwarf-size. In fact, he had no intention of wearing Dwight’s clothes, even if they did fit. With any luck, the airline would return his case in the morning – hopefully before Erica arrived. Until then, he would stick to his own gear, however creased and grubby it might be.

  ‘By the way, I’ve left you a list of phone-numbers – everything from plumbers to physicians – and our neighbours will be happy to help, if there’s anything you need. And Kimberley, too, although she’s further out, of course. But Erica knows the ropes, so you should manage perfectly well – at least as far as the practicalities are concerned. So I’ll say goodnight for the moment, and we’ll liaise again tomorrow. Sleep well, Eric. Sweet dreams!

  Sleep well. Never had words seemed so ironically inept. He hadn’t slept at all – let alone well, yet now it was 2 a.m., and he felt completely knackered, having been awake for three nights running. He loathed those prats who blithely said, ‘If you’re tired enough, you’ll sleep’ – a claim he had frequently disproved. Besides, anxiety and shame didn’t make for a restful night, and he was feeling both on account of Erica: her unhappiness, her resentment of Christine’s pregnancy, his own comparative neglect of her. And, despite the fact he was lapped in utter luxury, that only made things worse. The four-poster was claustrophobic; the lowering wooden canopy reminding him of a coffin-lid and the heavy velvet curtains shutting out all light and air. Every time he closed his eyes, new, disturbing fears began churning through his mind – fear of the dark, of suffocation. The coffin-lid was pressing down; the curtains had become a shroud, binding tighter, tighter.

  Sitting up in terror, he struggled out of bed, fighting his way through the obstructive, weighty hangings, and pressing every light-switch in the room: ceiling lights, cupboard lights, bedside lamps, lighting round the mirrors. The glare was merciless, but better that than the darkness of death.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ he muttered. ‘Get a grip.’ No wonder Christine had left him. Would any normal person put up with such a wimp?

  Desperate to regain control, he stretched out on the floor. Perhaps he could sleep there instead. At least he wouldn’t have that oppressive sense of being stifled and shut in, nor would his skin be irritated by the beaded, sequinned linen. Sequins on bed-sheets really was a step too far.

  After only five minutes, his limbs were aching, making sleep impossible once more. Countless times in childhood, he had lain awake like this – whenever he was moved to another so-called home, and had to get to know a new foster-mum, or find his way around a new, confusing building. Or maybe he dared not close his eyes because some brute or bully who shared his room might pounce in the night and insist he tossed them off, or try to smother him with a pillow, or cut off all his hair with painful jabbing scissors, stuff the curls halfway down his throat, then deride him as a sissy if he cried.

  Trying to dispel the painful memories, he got up again and began prowling round the room, unable to avoid the mirrors, which reflected him six times over: a ludicrous figure, clad in the voluminous airline T-shirt that stopped just short of his hairy knees. Who needed all those mirrors – or works of art in a bedroom; huge abstract things the colour of dried blood? Even being in a guest-room seemed all wrong. He wasn’t a guest, but a relative – Erica’s biological father, for God’s sake. Guests weren’t family and had to observe the niceties and be on their best behaviour; couldn’t get up and raid the larder, as he was severely tempted to do, just to find some comfort-food and fill the void inside him. His identity seemed to be crumbling away, and he was shrinking into nothingness, unravelling, disintegrating….

  Close to panic, he flung open the cupboard where he had stowed his flight-bag, took it out, with shaking hands, and rummaged through the contents, grabbing Stella’s black cat and Mandy’s scarlet thong. Perhaps they might possess the power to restore him to himself – make him friend and lover again, functioning human being. He took both back to bed with him; laid the thong on his pillow, and tried to imagine Mandy lying there beside him; still his beloved fiancée and carrying his child. Then he held the cat close against his chest; turning it into Charlie, the old feline friend who had helped him through the divorce; Charlie no longer lost in the uncaring streets of London, but restored and resurrected.

  At least, he thought, closing his eyes in complete and utter weariness, the three of them were safe here from the bullies and abusers.

  chapter twenty-two

  ‘Bon voyage!’ Eric called, feeling a curdled mix of relief and apprehension, as the limousine purred away, with Dwight and Christine waving a stiff goodbye. In truth, it was good to see the back of them, although, of course, there was a downside: he was now on his own, in charge of a huge house and soon to be responsible for a disturbed and wayward daughter. He waited till the car had turned the corner, noting with a twinge of resentment how different it was from his own cramped and undistinguished cab. This was a sleek stretch-limousine, big enough for a tribe.

  Nor could he help envying the fact that the pair were leaving to get married. He, too, should have been planning a wedding; arranging a honeymoon – not as exotic as theirs, maybe, but still deeply gratifying. The loss of Mandy had left a scar so red and raw, he doubted if it would ever heal.

  Walking back to the columned porch, he was aware that, in the light of day, the place looked even more imposing and seemed to shrink from him in disdain as he entered the stylish hall. Although was it any wonder, when he was still bunged up with a cold and wearing yesterday’s grubby, crumpled clothes? The first thing he intended to do, now he had the house to himself, was put his gear in the washing-machine and give it a quick press, so that he would be fit (well, fittish) to meet Erica and Kimberley.

  Having stripped to the skin, loaded the machine and girded himself in the towelling robe from the guest-room, he embarked on a tour of the house. Christine had already showed him round, a couple of hours ago, but he needed to get his bearings before his daughter turned up, to ensure he knew where everything was kept. Beginning in the kitchen, he marvelled again at its size. The walk-in pantry alone would almost house a family and was filled to the gunwales with a huge array of food and drink, mostly in giant-sized packets, or bottles so large they would have doubled as effective coshes. He had counted a dozen differ
ent cereals, twenty salad-dressings, six varieties of peanut butter (crunchy, smooth, whipped, organic, reduced fat and low-salt; all in jars as big as Ali Baba’s), and every type of tea from Earl Grey and jasmine to Red Bush and camomile. He had to keep reminding himself that a mere three people lived here, since clearly they had stocked up for a siege. The fridge was panelled in Brazilian cherry-wood, to match the kitchen-cupboards, and had double doors, like those of a church, which opened to reveal a cornucopia of goodies. How would he and Erica ever consume all those cheeses, yogurts, salads, sausages and fruits before they were past their sell-by date? And still more supplies awaited them in the three – yes, three – freezers, each crammed to the brim with a variety of ready-meals, vegetables, pizzas, waffles, ice-creams and frozen gateaux.

  Another thing that struck him was the number of dining-tables – a large one here in the kitchen, in addition to the black one in the sitting-room, the glass-topped one in the dining-room and the wooden one on the deck outside, adjoining the large barbecue. As someone who was quite content to eat his meals on his lap, it did seem a tad excessive, and he wondered if they were used in turn, on some sort of rota system.

  Equally excessive was the games-room, which housed a ping-pong table, a pool-table, a free-standing air-hockey game, a plasma TV with a screen so large it took up one whole wall and a variety of gym-equipment, including a treadmill, two exercise bikes and a rowing-machine. Well, if time should start to drag, he could always embark on a fitness programme; develop a few muscles to impress his library colleagues.

  The games-room led into the garage, itself so massive it could have played a major part in solving London’s housing crisis, and containing not only the three cars – one of which was Dwight’s new toy, a Porsche Carrera Cabriolet – but also a snowmobile, a speedboat, three gleaming new bikes and a whole battery of tools. Could you hate a man on account of his garage?

  Yes.

  Dwight and Christine each had a separate office, with elaborate swivel-chairs and such a profusion of cupboards they could have set up a stationery business and serviced the whole country, coast-to-coast. Examining their state-of-the-art computers and elaborate stereo systems, he couldn’t help thinking of the children he’d grown up with – kids from sink estates, where the lifts were permanently broken, the stairwells stank of piss, and gangs of teenage yobs roamed the place at night, armed with knives, or worse. And even nowadays, for that matter, close to where he lived himself, families of immigrants were crammed in, ten to a room, with elementary kitchens and dodgy sanitation. Perhaps Dwight and Christine could give up part of their house and turn it into a centre for those behind with their rent, or fighting off the bailiffs, or faced with sleeping rough.

  Hitching up his robe, which seemed designed for a giant – was nothing small in America? – he continued his tour upstairs, taking in the laundry-room and the three additional bathrooms: Dwight’s, Christine’s and Erica’s; the first boasting a four-poster bath. When he got home (if he got home), he must indulge in a little carpentry; carve a canopy and barley-sugar posts over his own shamefully basic bath, to add a touch of class.

  Distracted by some photos on the landing, he stopped to look at one of Erica taken several years ago, and wondered, as he often did, if she resembled his own father in appearance – that mysterious figure, who, for all he knew, could have been dark or fair, tall or short, Mr Average or an Adonis. It was always harder for him to imagine that his dark-haired daughter took after his mother, who had invariably been a redhead in his fantasies, but he liked to think that perhaps Erica had inherited her nose or mouth or face-shape, or some of her characteristics.

  Mooching on to the master bedroom, he gazed in at the huge expanse of satin-covered bed and suddenly pictured Dwight making love, with consummate expertise and skill, while a passionate Christine moaned and writhed beneath him in extremes of ecstasy. He was revolted by the thought, yet couldn’t stop the succession of images throbbing and thrusting through his mind. The flagrant couple were probably at this very moment snogging in the taxi; indulging in some practice before the honeymoon.

  No such excitements for him; only a session at the ironing-board. Christine had seemed flummoxed when he asked her where the iron was; told him his guess was as good as hers, since Malinal took care of the laundry, and she herself hadn’t ironed so much as a handkerchief since moving to the States. He’d eventually tracked it down in the laundry-room and, in the absence of Malinal – a Mexican maid, apparently, and due to turn up tomorrow – got to work on his shirt and jeans.

  Having dressed in the still damp garments, he studied himself in the brace of mirrors. No, not a pretty sight. His rash was still unsightly, his nose still red and swollen, dark circles were etched beneath his eyes, and the shirt looked, frankly, cheap – at least compared with Dwight’s. Reluctantly, he went to fetch his hated rival’s dove-grey cashmere sweater, knowing he had to make an effort not to disappoint his daughter too severely, since she would now be used to Superman and comparisons were odious.

  Although far too big, the sweater did effect a minor transformation – he now looked almost classy, for God’s sake! He made a mental note to ask Santa Claus to stuff a cashmere jumper in his Christmas stocking, along with a cashmere face-mask to conceal any future rashes.

  Next, he inspected the bathroom-cabinet (almost the size of a wardrobe) and picked out anything and everything that could add a little polish: Sudafed to dry up his runny nose, brilliantine to tame his hair, mouthwash to sweeten his breath and a good dousing of Dwight’s aftershave to bring women flocking in droves. Who was he kidding? His sex-life was probably over now, for ever.

  Once coiffed, groomed and scented, he checked the time once more. He’d had his eye on the clock all morning, counting down the minutes until Erica arrived. Still half an hour to go, so he decided to ring the airline and enquire about his lost luggage. It took him an age to get through, and then he was passed from one department to another, with long waits in between, spent hanging on, listening to maddening muzak. And all for no result. No, they hadn’t located the case; no, it wouldn’t be coming today; no, they couldn’t say exactly when; yes, could he ring again tomorrow, to check?

  Only when he put down the phone, did he realize quite how tired he felt. A combination of sleeplessness and jet-lag, together with the stress at being so far away from home, had reduced him to a zombie. He made himself a coffee, after a long tussle with the Espresso machine, which, complex as it was, would have done credit to the biggest branch of Starbucks. Taking his cup out onto the deck, he listened to the silence; a silence so profound, he found it almost disorienting. Living in Vauxhall, he was so used to noisy neighbours, shrilling sirens, droning planes and a cacophony of building works, the hush here was almost uncanny in comparison. There was no traffic noise, no crying babies or barking dogs; indeed, no sign or sound of another living soul. Far from welcoming the peace, it seemed to emphasize his isolation, as if every person in this whole quiescent suburb was confined to a monastic cell and barred from communication. He’d assumed he’d be staying in Seattle proper, with all the buzz of a big city, the sense of connection and community, the vital reassurance that bustling human activity was going on around him.

  Wandering back inside, he tried to sit and read, but found it impossible to concentrate on anything beyond the fact that, in roughly seven minutes, he would be face-to-face with his daughter. It was stupid to be nervous, yet he was so desperate to make a good impression that when, eventually, a car drew up, he rushed out to the porch in a state of excessive agitation.

  He stopped dead in his tracks as he saw her. His daughter? No, impossible. The Erica he remembered had been a little girl, still three months short of twelve, with a naked face, straight, dark hair, a flat chest and a boyish figure. So who was this outrageous little sexpot, with streaked and blonded curls, a layer of heavy make-up and pert new breasts, emphasized by some sort of push-up bra? His gaze travelled from her crop-top to the expanse of naked midri
ff, on display for all to see, then down to her skin-tight jeans, designed to draw attention to her newly rounded hips. Trying to disguise his shock, he walked unsteadily towards her, opening his arms in a hug.

  ‘Hey, watch my hair!’ she muttered, dodging his embrace.

  He swallowed. Hardly a fitting welcome for a Dad, especially after an absence of fifteen months. But, before he could say a word, the woman who had brought her home extended a scarlet-taloned hand in greeting and flashed him a dazzling smile.

  ‘I’m Kimberley,’ she said. ‘It’s great to meet you, at last!’

  So this was the airhead Dwight and Christine had mentioned, but at least someone was pleased to see him. His daughter hadn’t even said hello, or given him so much as a peck on the cheek, and was now standing in sulky silence, jabbing at the ground with one ill-fitting, high-heeled shoe, which looked as if it had been borrowed from a grown-up. The Erica he’d known had worn battered trainers, or flip-flops.

  ‘Yes, good to meet you, too,’ he said, daunted by the woman’s sheer good grooming. She, too, was over-made-up, with bee-stung crimson lips, heavily mascara’d lashes that reminded him of miniature iron railings, and hair so lacquered, primped and volumunized, she must have spent the morning at the salon. ‘Do come in,’ he urged. ‘Can I offer you a coffee or a drink?’

  ‘Oh, I just love your English accent! It’s exactly like Christine’s. But, no, I mustn’t stay, thank you all the same. I’ve left Brooke on her own. But let’s get together very soon, OK? You must come over for dinner and meet my husband, Ted. Or we could take the girls out, if you want; maybe drive into Belle Vue or Seattle and see a movie they’d like.’

  ‘Yes, great idea!’ He stole another glance at Erica; still unable to believe that she could have metamorphosed into this shameless little Lolita, and how in heaven’s name Christine could have permitted it.