Man and Wife

by Tony Parsons

  ‘Then there’s no hope.’

  ‘There’s always hope, Mr Silver. You can withhold consent. We can apply for a contact order. At the very least, that would slow her down. Make her go to the airport the long way round. Who knows? It might even stop her leaving the country.’

  ‘And the order would say that I must be allowed to see my boy? She couldn’t stop me seeing Pat?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. You would have contact as the named person in the contact order.’

  The named person. Once I was a father. Now I was a named person.

  ‘We hear a lot about absent fathers in our society, Mr Silver. We don’t hear so much about decent fathers who are denied contact with their children because of the whim of a judge. I have seen men destroyed by losing contact with their children. And I mean quite literally destroyed. Nervous breakdowns. Suicides. Alcoholics. Heart attacks. Blood pressure so high that a stroke was inevitable. Men killed by the loss of their children. Men who had done nothing wrong.’

  ‘But I did.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I did something wrong. I’m not like those other men. My first marriage. The break-up. It was all my fault.’

  ‘What was your fault?’

  ‘Our divorce. The break-up of our marriage. It was my fault. I slept with someone else.’

  My lawyer laughed out loud. ‘Mr Silver. Harry. That’s completely irrelevant. You don’t have to be true to your wife. Goodness me, that’s what this country is all about.’ His face became serious again. ‘There’s something else you have to consider, Mr Silver, and it’s the most important thing of all.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You have to ask yourself what happens if you win.’

  ‘That’s all good, isn’t it? That’s nothing but good. If I win, then Pat stays in the country and Gina has no choice. That’s just what we want to happen, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well – how’s your ex-wife going to feel if you stop her moving to America?’

  ‘I guess…she will start to hate me. Really and truly hate my guts.’

  Not for the first time, I remembered Gina’s dream of living in Japan that I stole on our wedding day. Now I would be stealing her dream of living in America. I would have denied her two shots at happiness.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Silver. You will be preventing her from living her life where she chooses to live it. And that is highly likely to have some impact on your son. In fact, you can count on it. Frankly, if you stopped her leaving, then she could poison him against you. Make it harder to visit. Make it harder all round. That’s what usually happens.’

  ‘So you think I should give her my consent to take Pat out of the country?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. But you have to understand something about family law, Mr Silver. We don’t get involved. The lawyers, I mean. As long as the parents agree, we leave you to it. If you can’t agree, then we come in. And it can be very hard to get rid of us.’

  I thought of what my life would be like with Pat in America. How empty it would feel. And I thought about what my life with Cyd and Peggy would be like with Pat gone. The three of us had had some great times together, and we would do again. I remembered mostly silly things like dancing to Kylie, mucking about with Lucy Doll, and all of those still, quiet moments when we closed the door on the world and didn’t even feel the need to talk. But with Pat in another time zone, there would always be a shadow hanging over even the best of times. I looked forward to watching Peggy grow up. Yet at the same time I wondered how well you could bring up someone else’s kid when you couldn’t even bring up your own. And I thought of my life if Gina and Pat stayed. I could see her loathing me, resenting me for her husband’s stalled career, blaming me for everything that was wrong in her life. I tried to think about what was best for my son – I really did – but I was consumed by the knowledge of how much I was going to miss him.

  ‘Whatever I do, I lose him,’ I said. ‘I can’t win, can I? Because if I give my consent or withhold it, the same thing happens. I lose him for a second time.’

  Nigel Batty watched me carefully.

  ‘Make the most of your family,’ said Nigel Batty. ‘That’s my advice. Not as a lawyer, but as a man. Count your blessings, Mr Silver. Love your family. Not the family you once had. But the family that you have now.’

  nine

  At the entrance to the supermarket, Peggy and I had our way barred by a fat young mother stooping to shout at a small, grizzling boy of about five.

  ‘And I’m telling you, Ronan, for the last time – bloody no!’

  ‘But I want,’ sobbed Ronan, snot and tears all over his trembling chin. ‘But I want, Mum. I want, I want, I want.’

  ‘You can’t have any more, Ronan. You might want but you can’t have, okay? You’ve had enough, all right? You’ll be sick if you have any more today. You can have some more tomorrow, if you’re a good boy and eat up all your dinner.’

  ‘But I want now, Mum, I want right now.’

  ‘You’re not getting any more and that’s final. So shut it, Ronan.’

  ‘Want, want, want!’

  ‘This is what you want, Ronan,’ said the woman, suddenly losing it, and she grabbed Ronan’s arm, spun him around and slapped him hard across the top of his legs. Once, twice, three times. And I realised the woman wasn’t fat at all. She was pregnant.

  Ronan was silent for a split second, his eyes widening with shock, and then the real howling began. The pregnant young woman dragged him away, his screams echoing all the way from cooked meats to household goods.

  Peggy and I exchanged a knowing look.

  She was sitting in the supermarket trolley, facing me, her legs dangling, and I could tell that we were thinking the same thing.

  Thank God we are not like that.

  The pair of us often felt a bit superior in the supermarket. We looked in mute horror at all those frazzled, frequently pregnant young mums dragging their sobbing brats past another sugar counter, and all those ominously silent, red-faced fathers ready to explode at the first wrong word from their sulking, surly children, and we thought – we are better than that.

  I think Peggy thought that it was just a question of good manners. For an eight-year-old child, she had a sense of decorum worthy of Nancy Mitford. These dreadful people clearly didn’t know how to act in a supermarket. Common as muck, most of them. But for me it was about more than correct supermarket etiquette.

  When Cyd was working, out catering for a conference in the City or a launch party in the West End, and Peggy and I did the supermarket run alone, I often looked at those real mums and dads shopping with their real sons and daughters, and I thought – what’s to envy?

  When you looked at the bickering reality of genuine parents and their genuine children, what was so great about it? In a crowded supermarket near closing time, it was easy to believe that the real thing wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.

  Peggy and I had fun. Perhaps it was because going to the supermarket together was still a rare enough event to feel like a minor adventure, although it was happening more and more now that Food Glorious Food was taking off, but we always zipped happily up and down the aisles, Peggy holding our list in her snug trolley chair, laughing appreciatively as I casually disregarded the aisle speed limit. And although to the world we must have looked like just another dad out with his daughter, there was none of the petty squabbling that we saw among many of the real parents and their real children.

  We were better than that.

  Peggy and I always had a laugh in the supermarket.

  At least we did until today.

  It was Tony the Tiger’s fault. If Peggy hadn’t had a hopeless three-bowls-a-day addiction to Frosties, then this trip to the supermarket would have been just as painless and uneventful as all the rest.

  But Tony the Tiger spoilt everything.

  ‘Bread,’ Peggy said, frowning as she read her mother’s shopping list.

  ‘Got it,’ I said.


  ‘Milk?’

  I held up a plastic pint of semi-skinned. ‘Da-da!’

  Peggy laughed, then scrunched up her eyes. ‘To…to-i…er.’

  ‘Toilet rolls. Check! That’s it, Peg. We got the lot. Let’s rock and roll.’

  ‘Just my breakfast then.’ We were in the aisle next to all the cereals. The brightly coloured boxes and leering cartoon characters were all around. ‘Frosties. They’re grrreat!’

  ‘Don’t need any, Peg. There’s lots of cereal at home.’

  ‘Not Frosties, Harry. Not Tony the Tiger. They’re grrreat!’

  Peggy liked her Frosties. Or perhaps she just liked Tony the Tiger and his catch phrase. But I had seen her have this exact confrontation with her mother a few times before.

  Peggy liked Frosties, but Cyd always bought multi-packs of cereal. And the unwritten rule in our house clearly stated that Peggy had to eat the lot – including Coco Pops, Wheaties and the dreaded Special K – before we bought another multi-pack. We couldn’t get another multi-pack just because she had noshed all the Frosties.

  When the Frosties controversy had arisen in the past, Cyd simply moved on down the aisle, and the subject was dropped. But with me, Peggy sensed that victory and extra Frosties were in her grasp.

  ‘Mummy said, Harry.’ She reached out and pulled a jumbo pack of Frosties from the shelf. Tony the Tiger grinned at me. He kept grinning even when I took the box from her and put it back on the shelf. ‘Oh, Harry. You disappoint me, you really do.’

  ‘No, Peg. Listen, we’ll get some more Frosties when you’ve eaten all the other stuff. I promise, okay?’

  A dark cloud passed over her face. ‘We will get some now. This very minute. I mean it, Harry. I’m not kidding.’

  ‘No, Peg.’

  She started climbing out of the supermarket trolley. She was getting a bit too big to ride in there, and suddenly the trolley lurched to one side and I had to catch her.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Peg, you’ll split your head open.’

  ‘Don’t swear, Harry. It’s very vulgar.’ She pulled a pack of Frosties from the shelf. I took them from her and threw them back. People were starting to stare. The way we stared when Ronan was getting smacked for his whining and his wanting.

  ‘Now stop making a fuss, Peg, and let’s go home.’

  I went to pick her up and place her back in the trolley, but she wriggled and shook. ‘Don’t touch me, Harry. You’re not my father.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard me, I believe.’

  I went to pick her up again but she took two steps backwards and raised her voice.

  ‘I want my mummy. You are not my daddy. Stop acting like you are.’

  An old lady with a basket containing two tins of cat food and a packet of Maltesers stopped to investigate.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ I said.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the cat lady. ‘I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to the little girl.’

  ‘He acts like he’s my daddy but he’s not,’ Peggy said, her eyes suddenly filling with self-pity. ‘He’s really not. He’s just pretending.’

  ‘Oh, here we go,’ I said. ‘Here come the tears.’

  ‘What an awful man you are,’ said the old girl.

  The young pregnant mother and Ronan happened to be passing. Ronan had cheered up considerably. He was just finishing off a bag of California Roll-flavour crisps. ‘Are you all right, darling?’ said his mum.

  ‘She’s upset,’ said the old cat lady. ‘She wants her mummy.’

  ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ said the young mum, indicating me.

  ‘I don’t think he’s anyone,’ said the old girl. ‘Are you anyone? Are you her daddy?’

  ‘Well, not exactly.’

  ‘No, he’s certainly not,’ said Peggy, hugging the leg of Ronan’s mum. ‘My daddy has a motorbike.’

  The old lady smoothed her hair. Ronan stared at me with wary curiosity. Flakes of crisps were all around his mouth. Saving them for later, my mum would have said.

  Then suddenly there was a store detective, all brown shirt and shaven head and biceps. ‘What’s going on here then?’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I said. ‘We’re going home now.’

  I made to pick up Peggy, but she recoiled as if I was approaching her with a bloodstained chainsaw in my hands.

  ‘Don’t let him touch me!’

  ‘He’ll never get you,’ said the old lady.

  ‘I’d like to see him try it,’ said Ronan’s mum.

  ‘Mum?’ said Ronan, starting to cry. You could see the masticated chunks of crisps in his mouth.

  ‘I’ll sort this out,’ said the store detective.

  Then he was in my face, this crop-haired white boy with a sprinkling of acne running down his thick pink neck. His meaty hands pressed lightly against my chest. Over his shoulder I could see the old lady and the young mum with their arms around Peggy, all of them glowering at me.

  ‘I need to have a word with you, sir,’ said the detective, taking my arm. ‘In the supervisor’s office. Then we’ll see if the police need to be involved.’

  I furiously shook him off. ‘The police? This is nuts.’

  ‘Are you this child’s father?’

  ‘I’m her mother’s husband.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere with you. We’re going home right now.’

  The thin veil of politeness slipped from his eyes. I got the impression he was glad to let it go.

  ‘You’re coming with me, pal,’ he said, his voice a little lower now but somehow more convincing. ‘We can do it nicely or the other way, but you’re coming with me.’

  ‘Crazy,’ I said. ‘It’s plain crazy.’

  But I let the store detective lead me away, leaving Peggy with her new protectors.

  ‘Mum,’ I heard Ronan say. ‘Can I have –’

  ‘No, you fucking well can’t,’ said his mum.

  I spent two hours in a little room set aside for shoplifters, the perpetrators of trolley rage and other assorted crazies. Just me and the spotty detective. In the end, they didn’t call the police. They called my wife.

  I heard them before I could see them as their footsteps echoed through the warren of storerooms and offices in the bowels of the supermarket. The door opened and there they were, my wife and my stepdaughter, escorted by some sort of white-coated manager.

  ‘Hello, Harry,’ Peggy said. ‘What’s this room then?’

  ‘Madam?’ said the man in the white coat. ‘Is that him?’

  ‘That’s him,’ Cyd said. ‘That’s my husband.’

  She didn’t sound too happy about it.

  ‘Try to have a good time,’ Cyd said, as our black cab crawled through the early-evening traffic of the West End. ‘I know you’re not in the mood for going out. Not after being arrested.’

  ‘I wasn’t arrested.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I was only taken in for questioning.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘There’s a difference.’

  ‘Of course. But please try to have a good time. For me.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘For you.’

  And I meant it. I knew that this was a big night for her.

  Cyd was always accompanying me to work-related functions. Start-of-series dinners, end-of-series dinners, award ceremonies galore, and all the other compulsory fun that we had to endure as part of my working life as the producer of Fish on Friday. She never complained.

  Unlike Gina, who usually came home from these things in tears of rage after someone had treated her like a moron because she was a homemaker. Unlike Gina, Cyd actually seemed to have a good time at these things. Or at least pretended she did, for my sake.

  And tonight it was my turn to stand by Cyd. We were going to a dinner organised by the Caterers Guild. It was the first year that the chief executive of Food Glorious Food had been invited. I was her plu
s one.

  ‘Are you sure I shouldn’t have put on a tie?’ I said. I was still in the sweatshirt and chinos that I had been apprehended in. ‘They’re not all going to be in suits and ties, are they?’

  Cyd stared at me doubtfully. She had been so wrapped up in what she was going to wear – in the end she slid into this little black number that showed off those legs that I loved so much, dancer’s legs, legs that could have belonged to Cyd Charisse herself – that she hadn’t taken a lot of notice of me.

  ‘Well, what do you wear at one of your dinners? You know, the ones we have to go to when Fish on Friday comes to the end of a series?’

  ‘You come as you are. You wear what you like. But that’s TV.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be fine. I was told it’s only an informal thing.’

  The do was in a restaurant called Deng’s that I had been to with Eamon and a couple of executives from the station. A great big barn of a place that served Modern Asian – which meant immaculately presented variations of what you would get in the restaurants of Soho and Chinatown, but served under ironic Andy Warhol-style pictures of Deng Xiaoping, and in much smaller portions. The waiters at Deng’s wore beautiful Mao suits from Shanghai Tang. The clientele usually wore the expensive-casual that we sported in my game.

  But not tonight.

  As our taxi pulled up, my stomach lurched when I saw that tonight the men were all in black tie.

  Apart from me, of course.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Cyd. ‘I’m so sorry, Harry.’

  ‘Whoops.’

  ‘Do you want to go home?’

  ‘I’ll butch it out.’

  ‘You don’t have to, babe. This is my fault.’

  ‘I want to support you tonight. What’s the worst that can happen?’

  ‘You’ll feel like a complete dickhead?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  We went inside. I moved through the black-tie crowd like a nun in a knocking shop, conscious of stares and sniggers, but ignoring them all.

  I wasn’t going to let a bunch of chicken satay merchants stop me accompanying my wife on her big night. Sally, Cyd’s assistant, waved like mad from the other side of the room, and started forcing her way over to us. Sally was a kind of relation – Gina’s half-sister, and my former babysitter. She was wearing some kind of elaborate ball gown, silky and strapless, like something Lucy Doll would sport on a big date with Brucie Doll. It was the first time I had ever seen her looking like a grown-up woman. She was very excited, but calmed down when she saw me.