TWNS-2-6-Kindle Master

by Alexander, Nick

  It took a while for him to worm his way into your affections, but about six months after we got him and about three after his fur had grown back, I came home to find you asleep on the sofa. April was snoozing between your legs and Solo was asleep with his head on your shoulder like a baby, and you were smiling in your sleep. Solo looked up at me and I swear that he winked, and I knew then that he’d won you over. I actually got a bit choked up about it, seeing the three people, or the three beings, I suppose, that I loved most in the world, all sleeping together like that. I’m actually getting a bit misty-eyed right now, just telling the story. Isn’t that funny?

  You’ll perhaps think it strange that I’ve included a photo of the cat as one of my precious photos, but I loved that cat. And that’s not a euphemism either. I loved him.

  He was with us for just over ten years, that’s almost twenty percent of my life and over fifty percent of his. He really was one of the family.

  And I know that everyone says this about their cats, but he was the loveliest, cleverest, purriest, most empathetic cat that ever existed.

  Do you remember how he used to like sleeping in the laundry basket on top of that awful, shuddering washing machine we used to have?

  When they invented those Power Plate things that people like to wobble on in order to lose weight, I remember thinking that fatty Solo had invented it first. And had proven, over many, many years of self-inflicted clinical trials, that it didn’t work at all.

  • • •

  The following Friday, on arriving home from work, Sean notices he has voicemail on his phone. Which is strange, because it’s been in his pocket all day, and he could swear that it hasn’t buzzed once.

  “Back already?” Sean asks, as soon as Maggie answers.

  “Hello!” Maggie says, then, “Yes! Got back yesterday.”

  “That was quick, wasn’t it?”

  “Ten days. Nine nights. Lovely, though. Sunshine every day.”

  “Lucky you,” Sean says, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear so that he can hunt for a snack to eat. “The weather’s been rubbish here.”

  “Look, I can’t talk for long,” Maggie says, “but did you do anything about the rowing business, yet?”

  “No. I was busy helping April move last weekend. But I’ve promised myself I’ll phone around tomorrow and see what’s what. Why, have you changed your mind?”

  “Perhaps,” Maggie says. “There’s a learning to row thing at Cantabrigian on Saturday mornings.”

  Sean has found a previously opened packet of crisps, but when he pops one into his mouth, he realises that they are stale and has to spit it out into the bin.

  “You OK?” Maggie asks.

  “Sorry, stale crisps. They make me gag. I don’t know why. Anyway, I know how to row, Mags.”

  “I know you do. But I only went about six times and that was twenty-odd years ago. Maybe I should do the learning one and you–”

  “So you have changed your mind?” Sean asks, interrupting her. “I thought Dave had vetoed rowing.”

  “Let’s just say I convinced him,” Maggie says. “But seriously, if you want to do a different one then go ahead. I think I’ll head down there and try this newbie thing tomorrow morning, myself. Strike while the iron’s hot.”

  “No, that’s fine,” Sean says. “Let’s both pretend to be newbies. We just head down there, do we? No need to book or anything?”

  “Apparently not. But it’s at eight, I’m afraid.”

  “Par for the course,” Sean says. “Let’s do it.”

  On Saturday morning, Sean peers doubtfully through the bedroom curtains. He’s comfortable in bed and is having second thoughts. But as it looks like the beginnings of a beautiful day, he steels himself and heads downstairs.

  He walks, with pleasure, through the early morning streets, past not-yet-open shops and pub staff unloading delivery vans. He crosses the green to the Cam and then walks to Riverside and then over a bridge towards their meeting place. In the quiet of the morning, with the sunlight dappling the river, he feels like he’s in some foreign country, perhaps Italy, or Spain.

  When he reaches the association boathouse he finds Maggie sitting on a wall looking glum. “Oh, hello,” she says. “Did you not get my message? I thought you might not have, which is why I hung around.”

  “I left it at home,” Sean says, patting his pocket. “I’m trying to keep it away from large bodies of water these days.”

  “I fucked up, I’m afraid,” Maggie says. “I must have misread the website or something. I thought we could just bowl up but he says we have to book in advance online and then wait to be invited or something.”

  “Oh,” Sean says.

  “He was pleasant about it. But, let’s say, unyielding.”

  Sean snorts. He can imagine Maggie trying to persuade the guy and is surprised, knowing her, that she gave in while he was still being polite. “Coffee?” he says, tilting his head townwards.

  “Sure,” Maggie says, jumping up and grabbing the bars of her pushbike.

  As they cross back over Riverside Bridge, Sean points at the building site where foundations are now being laid. “That’s one of ours,” he says.

  “Flats?” Maggie asks.

  “Yeah. Small. Very bijou. But nice.”

  “I should hope so,” Maggie says. “That’s prime real estate.”

  “It’s a shame about the rowing. I was feeling quite in need of some exercise.” Sean pats his stomach. “All those ready meals are starting to take their toll.”

  “Tell me about it,” Maggie says. “I thought the Italians were supposed to be the voluptuous ones, but I felt like a beached whale around that pool.”

  “Was it good though? D’you have a nice time?”

  “Yes, it was OK,” Maggie says, sounding determined to see the upside. “The weather was heavenly and Siena was beautiful. I hated Florence. We both hated Florence.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, I know it’s pretty and cultural and everything. But we got ripped off everywhere we turned. We ate horrible overpriced food, got woken up at eight by a building site and managed to queue for a whole morning to get into a museum where we couldn’t even see the wall for Chinese tourists.”

  “The Uffizi?”

  “That’s the one. I’m sure we were just unlucky. But… Anyway, Siena, as I say, was gorgeous.”

  Sean glances regretfully at a double scull whizzing along the river. “We could rent a rowing boat or a punt, I suppose,” he says. “If they’re open. What time do you have to be back?”

  Maggie shrugs. “We could,” she says. “I haven’t been on a punt for years.”

  They continue towards the town centre, past Midsummer Common, then diagonally across Jesus Green and by the time they get to Scudamore’s, the employee is just opening up shop.

  “You first,” Maggie says, clambering on board once the formalities have been done. “I need to get my sea legs first.” And so, bare footed, trouser-legs rolled, Sean pushes off.

  His ankles go into a kind of spasm making the boat shudder from side to side and inducing a fit of giggles on Maggie’s part.

  “I think it’s always like this to start with,” he says, frowning with concentration. “It’ll get better. You’ll see.”

  “Hey,” Maggie says, “If you’re still dry, you’re doing OK in my book.”

  Soon enough, Sean has settled into the rhythm of it and the punt is gliding upriver. “See, I knew I’d remember,” he says.

  “God, this is the life,” Maggie says, as the same boat they saw before whizzes past in the other direction. “Much better than being slave-driven in a rowing boat. This is exactly my kind of exercise.”

  “Don’t get too smug,” Sean tells her. “You’re punting back.”

  He pauses to remove his jacket which he throws to Maggie who puts it over her shoulders. “… a bit chilly,” she says. “But then it’s only just past nine.”

  “Toasty warm up this end,”
Sean comments, wiping sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve.

  “Such a winger,” Maggie jokes. She points towards a block of staggered apartments on the river bank ahead and says, “That’s one of yours, isn’t it?”

  Sean follows her gaze and nods. “Probably the nicest thing I ever designed,” he says. “Do you remember the sliding out kitchen business?”

  “I can’t say I do,” Maggie admits. “Was it good?”

  “About the only time anyone’s ever let me do any interior design,” Sean says. “It was brilliant. We should have patented it.”

  “You should think yourself lucky,” Maggie says. “I do miss the old days at Nicholson-Wallace, you know. At Wainbridge’s we never seem to do anything more exciting than bloody verandas these days.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that. They’re not exactly picky, are they?”

  “No,” Maggie says. “Not picky at all. Still, a job’s a job, eh?” She raises her hand and points. “That one’s got a For Sale sign – look! You should buy it and cook curries in your patented kitchen.”

  Sean laughs.

  “Why are you laughing? I’m serious.”

  “Well, I’ve designed at least thirty buildings like that, but I still couldn’t afford a one bed flat in there.”

  “I’ll bet you could,” Maggie says. “Your place must be worth a bomb by now. Those town centre places have rocketed.”

  “I’ll bet you I couldn’t. You’re talking at least half a million for one of those.” Sean stops punting and bends over, visibly out of breath. “Not as fit as I was,” he says. “D’you want a go?”

  “I thought I was doing the easy bit on the way home,” Maggie says. “It’s a boy’s job punting up-river. You know it is.”

  “Oh, come on, Mags. I’m knackered.”

  “Oh, fair enough,” Maggie says. “God, chivalry. It ain’t what it used to be.”

  Snapshot #20

  35 mm format, colour. A man, woman and child are posing for a photo. Behind them the glass pyramid of the Louvre Museum is lit up against the night sky.

  Paris! Their first ever trip abroad as a family. It had been the first time Sean had ever thought about parallel lives, about the fact that there were a million other lives they could live if they just chose to.

  He had loved Paris. He had loved the food and the architecture – he had even managed to love the snooty waiters they seemed to encounter everywhere.

  Catherine had been in a state of constant ecstasy over every single thing, whether it was the Louvre itself, a funky chair in a bistro, the tiny tubes of toothpaste provided by the hotel, or the fact that the waiters still wore white shirts and waistcoats. She had spent the entire three days raving about everything she saw.

  Even April, who Sean had been worried about taking along, had been on her absolute best behaviour. She had even learnt some French words, and had said “Bonjour” to almost every person whose path they had crossed. And in central Paris that was a lot of people.

  The thought had come to him, he remembers, when they were sitting in the sunshine opposite the Fontaine des Innocents waiting for their very expensive, very tiny coffees to be delivered.

  A man who looked a bit like Sean had stridden purposefully past. He had been smoking and left a blue trail of Gauloises smoke behind him. He had been carrying a baguette, the top of which he had snapped off and popped into his mouth as he walked past them with visible pleasure. And Sean had thought, Why don’t we live here? Why do we live in England? What’s stopping us learning French and moving to Paris? With Britain being in the EU it was easy to move just about anywhere, wasn’t it? That, after all, was the whole point.

  It was all just daydreaming, of course. It was a life change that was so complex that Sean couldn’t even envisage how he might put it into practice. Especially with a wife and daughter to worry about. But that feeling, his Paris-envy, as he nicknamed it in his own head, had stayed with him for many months after they got home to their “pleasant little lives in Cambridge”, as he suddenly had come to see them.

  Cassette #20

  Hello Sean.

  Today, as you can see, we’re in Paris. I think it’s ’90 but it might be ’91. For once, I failed to be my usual organised self, so there’s no clue pencilled on the back.

  Anyway, it was one of the absolute high points for me. It’s such a cliché to say that Paris is romantic, but boy is it ever. Neither of us was having affairs and neither of us was unhappy at work, and April became, for three days only, this perfectly behaved little child. On top of all that, we got sunshine, too!

  We walked along a canal somewhere at some point and I remember I looked across at you and my heart fluttered and I thought Oh good, it’s still there. I had doubted, for a moment. Forgive me.

  I don’t remember that many specifics of the weekend except that the whole place seemed to glow in the April sunshine and everything seemed beautiful and chic and delicious.

  You started smoking again briefly (you had stopped for some time) but the smell of Gauloises was everywhere and you just couldn’t help yourself, or so you said. I think you thought it would make you into a Parisian or something. April kept asking what Daddy was doing, and I kept saying “a bad thing”. But she liked it. “It looks pretty,” she said, “like Thomas the Tank Engine.”

  We had a gorgeous meal with a horrible waiter. I remember that. And I bet you do too.

  You made the unforgivable mistake of pouring wine into your water glass and he came bustling out of the back to tell you off. “You ruin it!” he kept saying. “You English! You know nothing!” So of course we both cracked up laughing which made things even worse. But it’s one of the fondest memories I have of the trip. Isn’t that peculiar?

  He was lovely to April, though. I remember that because it seemed like the exact opposite of home. Here in England, there’s nothing more likely to get a waiter’s back up than taking your seven-year-old to a posh restaurant. But Monsieur Wrong Glass, as we used to call him, brought her a booster seat and special kiddy sized portions and then a handful of complimentary chocolates at the end. I think he felt sorry for poor April being brought up by such terrible heathens that we didn’t even know our water glasses from our wine glasses. All that fuss! It was the cheapest wine on the menu, too!

  • • •

  Sean plays the tape over and over and over again, but all he can hear is that one phrase: Neither of us was having affairs.

  Does that mean what he thinks it means, or could it just have been a slip of the tongue? Is it even possible to wait until next Sunday to find out? Does he want to carry on listening at all, anymore?

  Once he has convinced himself that there are no further clues, not in Catherine’s tone of voice, nor in her choice of words, he pushes the dictaphone to one side and stares at the photo.

  He looks at little April in her blue plastic mac. (The red one which April wanted had reminded Catherine too much of Don’t Look Now.) She’s smiling and waving in the photo. They all are.

  He tries to remember who took the photo. A random passer-by, presumably.

  And then eventually, without any conscious decision having been taken, he slides his phone across the tabletop and calls Maggie.

  It’s Dave who answers. He tells Sean that Maggie is occupied for a few minutes, which Sean takes to mean that she’s on the loo.

  He’s just reaching for the dictaphone again when his phone starts to vibrate.

  “Mags?”

  “Yes. Sorry about that. What’s up?” she asks, sounding flustered.

  “Sorry…” Sean says, “but…”

  “Yes?”

  “Mags, do you think Catherine had an affair?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think–”

  “Sorry, I did hear you. It’s just… Why are we asking this?”

  “I don’t know. I…”

  “Did she say she did? Is this another one of her tape revelations?”

  Sean frowns at his phone. Maggie is soundin
g brusque and unsympathetic, which is not like her at all. “Not really,” he says, starting to wish already that he hadn’t phoned. “But she said that at one point, in Paris, neither of us was having affairs.”

  “Oh,” Maggie says. “She says she wasn’t having one, then? And her saying that makes you think she was having one for some reason? Have I got that right?”

  “She said she wasn’t having one, then,” Sean says, pedantically. “Which surely implies that at another point she was, doesn’t it?”

  Maggie sighs deeply. “I don’t see how that implies anything, Sean,” she says.

  Sean shakes his head in frustration. He realises that without the context, without Maggie actually listening to the tape, he’s not making any sense. “You know what? Forget it,” he tells her. “I’m sorry. I’m being daft. Have a good Sunday.” And then he ends the call.

  Maggie phones him back immediately but he doesn’t answer and she doesn’t leave a message.

  He puts the recorder back in the box and puts the box back in the kitchen cabinet where he hopes he’ll be able to forget about it, even as he knows, with certainty, that he won’t.

  A text message appears on the screen of his phone with a ping.

  “She didn’t have an affair, Sean,” it reads. “I’m certain of it. And if she says or implies that she did, it’ll be like the rest. Another morphine induced anomaly. Relax. And give yourself a break from those damned tapes. As I keep saying, it’s really not healthy.”

  • • •

  Sean sleeps badly for three nights in a row.

  Twice, in the wee small hours of the morning, he gets up, descends to the ground floor, and removes the tape recorder from the box. One time, at three a.m. on Wednesday, he goes as far as inserting the next tape and pressing play. But Catherine’s voice gets no further than explaining that it’s likely to be a shorter message than usual because she isn’t feeling well before Sean, overcome by guilt, hits the stop button.

  On Thursday, at work, Jenny asks him if he’s feeling OK. “You’re looking a bit peaky,” she says.