by Oliver Tidy
‘So now you’re looking to buy here?’ he said, stating the blindingly obvious in his bid to make polite conversation.
For answer, Joy nodded and continued her thoughtful prowling.
James Meakin followed her from room to room pointing out certain modifications that she would have the benefit of should she choose to proceed with the purchase. To Joy, it was just background noise. She’d already made up her mind. She quite liked living in The Gateway and this flat was bigger and higher up than where she was now; the bathroom and kitchen had both been tastefully refurbished; and it had a balcony view of Dover harbour to die for. She imagined sitting there on a sunny Sunday morning with coffee and the papers, the French coastline beckoning from the horizon.
‘There’s been quite a bit of interest on this today,’ he said, ‘but because you had a viewing time we’ve stalled the others.’
Joy couldn’t tell if this was simply part of his pitch, him trying to panic her into committing to the purchase.
She took one last look around and said, ‘You can tell the others who are waiting in line to look elsewhere. This one’s sold.’
The man beamed his nice smile again, offered his congratulations and said, a little tentatively, ‘Mr Marsh doesn’t need to see the place?’
If he had not been her type and her age and she had not been intoxicated with the euphoria of purchasing her first home, she might have found that rather sexist and presumptuous. As it was, she met his rather green eyes and said, ‘No. It’s just me.’
James Meakin brightened further, like someone was playing with his dimmer switch. He slipped back his cufflinked shirtsleeve and checked his expensive-looking watch. ‘You’re my last viewing today. If it were not highly unprofessional, I’d invite you for a drink to celebrate.’
Joy was feeling a little playful in her happiness. ‘Highly unprofessional, is it? Well, James, if I didn’t already have a date tonight I might have accepted. I’m in the mood to celebrate.’
*
Romney had gone from work to the best supermarket in town in search of expensive wine, some proper nibbles and a microwave meal. Then he’d gone straight home, toyed with the idea of a quick run, dismissed it as foolish and decided instead to tidy up and run the vacuum cleaner over the floors. He started drinking immediately. He was half way through a bottle of Bulgarian white and finished with all the housework he was going to do when he decided to put the cork back in and leave the rest for later.
Zara had left clothes on the bathroom floor. They made him think of her. Thinking of her made him renew his hopes that she didn’t turn up unannounced while Julie was round. That could be very awkward. He stuffed them into the laundry basket.
Happy with the state of the place, he checked his watch – plenty of time – then his phone – no new messages – then went for a shave and a shower.
Forty minutes later he was half-an-hour early for Julie Carpenter’s scheduled arrival. He was sitting on the sofa with another glass of wine, smelling nice, looking smart-casual and feeling a little drunk and a little sick. He had not left himself enough time to cook, eat and clean up after the meal that he’d bought, and in truth his appetite was not great, so he’d made a quick tuna and mayonnaise sandwich – just so that he wasn’t drinking on an empty stomach. The sandwich was now reacting badly with the alcohol and the increased release of adrenalin and stomach enzymes. He put the cork back in the bottle and went to brush his teeth. On the way, he put some music on.
He came out of the bathroom, turned off the music and turned on the television news. National and international, it was all bad and depressing. He turned the telly off and went out on to the patio for a smoke with another small glass of wine. When he’d smoked two and finished the drink he came back in and went to brush his teeth again. He still felt slightly nauseous.
Julie’s car swept up the gravel driveway a few minutes late. Romney stood, waited until she had extinguished her headlights, and sneaked a look through a chink in the curtains. The evening was heavy with a late dusk and Romney had left the outside light on. As soon as she stepped out of the car wearing a short black skirt, high heels, a flimsy white blouse and with her raven-coloured hair falling across her slim shoulders Romney wished he hadn’t drunk so much. He also wished he’d gone to the toilet instead of just thinking about it. He felt a trapdoor open in his stomach and the contents of his chest cavity fall through it. And in a moment of absolute clarity, he understood as clearly as if it had been written in blood on the white wall in front of him that he had never got over losing her.
*
Joy was punctual for their Tuesday evening rendezvous. She was looking forward to seeing her lover and having a night out mid-week.
When they were settled with their drinks, Joy said, ‘How did it go with the kids at the weekend?’ more out of obligation to ask than any burning interest she had in his ‘other’ life.
‘Oh, usual stuff, you know.’ Justin exhaled loudly. ‘The fruit of my loins are becoming rather a handful. And bloody expensive to keep happy.’
‘How do you mean?’
Justin put on a voice: ‘Daddy, Ben’s dad bought him a new phone. Can I have a new phone? Mummy said I should ask you. Daddy, Felicity has started horse riding lessons. Can I start horse riding lessons?’
‘Let me guess,’ said Joy. ‘Mummy said I should ask you.’
Justin gulped his ale and said, ‘Correct. Mummy is setting me up to be either the big, bad daddy or bankrupted by my children.’
‘Why don’t you just talk to them? Explain about money and stuff.’
‘Trouble is, I see so little of them I don’t want to let them down.’
‘It’s not letting them down. It’s encouraging them to be reasonable and understanding and grateful for what they’ve got – a father who loves them and who wants to spend his time with them. There are few enough of them around.’
Justin smiled a little tiredly, ‘If only it were that easy.’
‘I think it is. Start as you mean to go on. You go giving kids everything they want you’re making a rod for your own back.’
Justin sighed and ran a hand through his hair, ‘I know you’re right, Joy. But guilt multiplied by emotional blackmail is a powerful outcome.’
‘You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. It was their mother who went off with someone else.’
Justin shrugged, like that made no difference, sipped some more beer and said, ‘What’s new in Dover CID? I saw on the local news about the body in the container at Aylesham. Is that the one you were called out for Saturday night?’
Joy was glad to have her excuse for missing Sunday lunch at Justin’s mother’s given some validation. ‘Yes. What a mess that was.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘If we’re going to order food, no thanks.’
‘Like that was it?’
‘Worse. Much worse.’
‘Message received. Anything else new?’
Now was the perfect time to share her big news. She’d all but bought her first home and by definition one only did that once in one’s lifetime. She’d wondered again about how to broach the subject with Justin. Correction: she’d worried about it and that had irritated her because on so many levels it shouldn’t make her anxious.
Walking to the pub she’d changed her mind backwards and forwards over whether to tell him tonight and what to say. In the end she’d decided to be a little economical with the full truth and see how Justin’s reaction shaped up. It was her money, after all.
Joy opened her mouth and Justin’s mobile phone rang. Joy waited while he found it and groaned at the caller ID. ‘It’s the curfew,’ he said – his current-future-ex-wife as he liked to refer to her and then abbreviate the mouthful.
‘You’d better answer it,’ said Joy. She knew he was going to anyway. ‘It could be about the kids.’
‘I know. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t and something awful had happened to one of them. Sorry.’
&
nbsp; More emotional blackmail, thought Joy, as Justin stood and moved away with the device clamped to his ear. That would always ensure that Justin would never fail to pick up the phone no matter where he was or what he was doing. Joy stared at her half-empty glass and decided to down it and get another. If experience was anything to go by, Justin would be a while and she was going to need it.
*
Romney opened the door to her. For some minutes he had pondered over what to wear on his feet. Ordinarily he did not like outdoor shoes worn in the house but looking down at his feet in carpet slippers he had found the overall effect not conducive to the look he hoped to pull off. There was, he decided, nothing roguishly romantic or seductively sexy about tartan slippers on a man. And they made him feel shorter. He had opted for a pair of new and unfamiliar shoes that both complimented his outfit and were clean.
As he stepped over the threshold to meet her he caught his heel on the raised water bar. He managed to steady himself and avoid an embarrassing reunion by grabbing hold of the door frame. He hoped she hadn’t noticed. The start the brush with a topple gave him released another chemical into the cocktail swirling in the cement mixer that was his stomach, which contributed to a belch that he managed to hide behind his hand. It was one of those releases of gas that is quickly followed by an involuntary shudder at the realisation that a retch is not far behind. He cursed his stupidity with the wine, his choice of evening snack – an ill-advised oily tuna and possibly out-of-date-mayonnaise sandwich – his nervousness and his luck.
Julie seemed not to have noticed. She was walking towards him with her crimson-tinted lips drawn back over her white teeth, and her perfect skin finely creased in the brightest of smiles. Her face radiated her pleasure at the meeting. She approached hurriedly with confident, easy strides of her long, black-stocking-clad legs. Romney felt his heart working. He felt his lungs working. He felt his intestines working and he thanked a God he didn’t believe in that with a quick clench he was able to feel his sphincter working.
With a couple of metres separating them – and the distance narrowing fast – Julie’s arms left her sides. Like the wings of an angel preparing for flight they began their slow upward movement for an embrace that Romney had not seriously factored into this end of the proceedings. With her intention declared, Romney’s anxieties for their meeting were scattered and upended, like plastic patio chairs in a gale. He too was smiling, and his arms were coming up. He was dimly aware that his emotions were trampling all over his good sense, like spooked ponies tearing around a manicured lawn. But with a startling lucidity he understood that, like a paper clip to a scrapyard crane’s magnet, he was powerless to resist her draw even if he’d wanted to.
They embraced.
They clung to each other like lovers before a gunpoint-enforced separation. Romney felt her slim, firm body pressed tightly up against him; his face ended up buried in her hair and the familiar fragrances unlocked the sweetest memories of their time together. His brain simmered in the steaming juices of his lust.
Long moments passed. Julie was trembling, perhaps crying. Romney relaxed his grip. She lifted her head from his chest and looked up into his face, eyes wet with tears. Neither of them had spoken a word. Julie raised her chin, she put a firm hand on the back of his neck and her expression became one of absolute serious serenity. She applied gentle pressure and, like a reed in the wind, he bent to her will, all the time conscious that to breathe his sick-burp into her face would be certain to spoil the beauty of the moment.
*
‘Sorry about that,’ said Justin, coming back to the table a good ten minutes later. He didn’t try to explain what the call had been about and, to be spared that at least, Joy was grateful.
Justin noticed that her glass was almost empty. ‘Same again?’ he said, draining his dregs.
‘Why not?’ said Joy throwing back what was left of her second.
While Justin was at the bar Joy received a text message: Hi, just to let you know, owner has accepted your offer. Email to follow, but thought you’d like to hear soonest. Over to you and congratulations. Meakins Estate Agents.
Joy wondered who’d sent the message – the older man at the office or the younger, rather dashing, Darcy of a man who’d shown her around. She dug out his card – James Meakin. She hadn’t made the family business connection before. It explained his moneyed look – Meakins had several offices across the region.
She was thinking about James Meakin when Justin returned to the table. ‘Blimey, I wish people could make up their bloody mind what they want before they get to the bar.’ When Joy didn’t answer, he said, ‘All right?’
She snapped out of her inappropriate reverie and smiled at him. ‘Yeah. Great. Thanks. Cheers.’
‘So you were about to tell me something before the curfew rang.’
‘Was I?’ Suddenly Joy didn’t feel like sharing and probably spoiling her evening and house-buying-happiness. ‘Oh, I remember. You’re familiar with Howard Gardner’s theory of multiple intelligences, I take it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. I think you’re going to enjoy the ying to his yang.’
‘Pardon.’
*
‘Oh, Tom. That was wonderful. I’d forgotten how good you are.’
Julie Carpenter threw a hot bare leg across him and ran her fingers through his sweat-matted chest hair. She pushed herself hard up against him and he felt the smooth, shaved wetness of her sex and her heat.
They were in his bed. Naked. Just a sheet over them. He hadn’t changed the bedding because he had not expected this. Romney lay on his back staring at the ceiling with an arm around Julie’s shoulder. He was sobering up fast and once the disorientating fog of his desire had been blown away by the tornado of their lovemaking things had started to come into focus.
Tom Romney was experiencing feelings of mild panic. He’d just made love to someone involved in his murder investigation; someone who was engaged to be married to someone else; someone who was solely responsible for the biggest mind-fuck he’d ever had; someone who had treated him with cruel and callous indifference while he lay confined to a hospital bed. On top of that, he still felt slightly nauseous. And they hadn’t used a condom.
‘Can I get you anything?’ he said.
‘Water. A big, cold glass of water, please.’
He kissed her forehead, eased his arm out from under her, swung his legs out of bed, pulled on his boxers and padded off to the kitchen. He ran the tap and threw water on his face. Then he drank thirstily, trying to douse the fire in his belly. He felt so bloated with gas. With a surly thought he wished he could turn the clock back ten minutes and douse the fire in his groin. He leaned on the sink and his stupidity threatened to overwhelm him. He filled a pint glass for her and headed back to the bedroom.
*
Justin was still laughing. ‘You’re quite sure there were only twelve?’ Justin had borrowed a pen and paper from behind the bar and written them down. He reeled them off to check. ‘Oh, I can’t wait to share this with the Education faculty tomorrow. It’s utterly priceless.’
Joy was starting to have doubts about having shared with him. She was beginning to wonder whether she should have just told him about the flat. Justin and Romney had met on a night out. They had talked. Romney had been a little drunk and Justin had been driving and therefore sober. The following morning Justin had poked a good deal of fun at some of the ideas of the head of Dover CID. Joy had become just a little defensive of her boss and had told Justin to stop it.
‘Don’t you dare. This is not for public consumption. This is just between ourselves. Got it?’
Justin laughed some more. This time some of it was directed at her.
‘I mean it, Justin. Not one word. If he wants to open up to you about it, that’s different, but if you embarrass me over this with him, I’ll...’
‘You’ll what?’
‘I will not be amused. Clear?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
>
‘Give me that paper.’ Justin passed it across. It didn’t matter and they both knew it; Justin had something of a photographic memory. ‘Not one word. I’m hungry. Let’s eat something.’
*
He had persuaded her to come and sit in the garden with him. In truth, he craved the fresh evening air and the gas attack he was suffering was threatening to cast a cloud over their evening – literally, a noxious, foul-smelling cloud. At least outside he could make a pretence of finding something interesting to go and check out further down the garden, an excuse to create a bit of space between them so that he might ease his painfully bloated belly quietly at a safe distance. He smoked too – literally a smokescreen.
‘Are you OK?’ said Julie.
Romney had calmed down a little since the sink. He’d persuaded himself that he hadn’t done anything terribly wrong, other than risking compromising the integrity of his investigation and therefore the wrath of Boudicca; risking an unwanted pregnancy and/or a sexually transmitted disease by having unprotected sex, and belittling himself to himself. He was glad it was quite dark around the back of the house.
But the sex had been so welcome, so wonderful, so fulfilling, so needed. He cursed his biology.
‘I’m fine. You?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you want to see me about? I mean, was there something else or was this it?’
She sipped her wine. Romney felt another stab of trapped air and said, ‘I’m just going to get some more water. Do you want anything?’
