Kind of Cruel (42 page)

‘It will be, if you can’t get your jealousy under control.’

‘Jealousy?’ What was he talking about?

‘Three text messages asking who Johannah Utting is, when you know I’m working and can’t text you back and I haven’t got time for that shit anyway. I’m sick of it. Every woman’s name I mention . . .’

‘You think I’m jealous of Johannah Utting,’ Charlie deduced aloud.

‘If I’d told you who she was, your next question would have been is she attractive.’

‘No, it wouldn’t.’

‘You’re not pathetic, so don’t act it,’ Simon raged on, impervious. ‘There’s no need to be jealous of every woman I meet. You’re the one I’m with. I’m married to you. I don’t give a shit about anyone else, and you know it, or you ought to know it. My whole life is you. You and work, but you mainly. Is that the sort of thing you want me to say? If I say it more often, will you stop interrogating me every time I mention a woman’s name?’

Charlie took a deep breath. He scared her when he was this angry, but what scared her even more was knowing she could still provoke him. She lacked the soothing instinct that most women seemed to have. ‘To answer your questions in order: yes, that’s exactly the sort of thing I want you to say, though you might want to work on your delivery. But that’s a minor quibble. Will I stop interrogating you when you drop strange women’s names into the conversation? All right, yes. Unless there are extenuating circumstances.’

‘What the fuck does that mean?’

‘It means I still want to know who Johannah Utting is.’

‘She’s attractive. Very. Prettier than you, but so what? I don’t love her and I never will. I love you!’

Charlie flinched. ‘Going back to what I said earlier, about your delivery . . . Yelling it at me from the kitchen . . .’

‘You’re lucky I’m not yelling “Get the fuck away from me,” because that’s how I feel at the moment!’

‘Now, you see, that detracts a bit from the otherwise romantic message you’re hoping to put across.’ So did the two-litre carton of semi-skimmed milk in his hand that he was about to take a swig from. Charlie decided not to mention it.

‘Just because I don’t . . . Ah, fuck it. Forget it.’ He turned away.
In a different room, facing in the opposite direction
. He was the perfect poster boy for breakdowns of communication everywhere.

‘Just because you don’t what?’ said Charlie. ‘Don’t have sex with me any more, if you can help it? Don’t allow me to explain why I might have asked a question, but assume the worst and attack me instead? I don’t give a toss what Jo Utting looks like! I’m not jealous of her and never have been. Did I mention that I have no idea who she is? Who is she? There you go, I asked again. I’m not getting the hang of this surrendered wife thing, am I?’ Was it worrying that Charlie was only now getting angry? Her first reaction had been to try to accommodate Simon’s unprovoked attack as if it were a high-maintenance house guest he’d invited to stay.

‘Do you want to know the real reason I’m paying through the nose to see a hypnotherapist?’ she said.

‘Proust reckons it’s nothing to do with wanting to give up smoking.’ Simon put the milk back in the fridge.

‘I can’t give up anything. I’ll never be able to. Not you, not cigarettes, none of the things I love that are killing me. I haven’t actually asked her yet, but I’m pretty sure that if and when I do, Ginny’ll tell me there’s no way she can brainwash me so that I stop loving you and fall for someone normal instead.’

‘Anyone normal’d run a mile if they saw you coming,’ said Simon. He seemed calmer. Because he was thinking about something, Charlie realised. Her? Did she dare to hope? Probably work, she decided.

‘I’m going to save myself some money,’ she said, making the decision as she heard herself say it. ‘I won’t see Ginny again.’

‘Our sex life. That’s the problem from your point of view, right?’

Charlie froze. Had she misheard?

‘Everything’d be fine between us, except we don’t . . . do it often enough?’ Simon stood in the doorway, his body nearly filling the gap between the kitchen and the hall.

‘I’m a little bit scared,’ Charlie admitted. ‘Are we really going to have this conversation?’

‘I like sex as much as the next person.’

‘That’s not true, and if you don’t want there to
be
a next person, you’re better off admitting it,’ she told him. Had she just threatened to have sex with someone else? She hadn’t meant to. There had been nights when she’d thought about it, thought about leaving him asleep in bed and driving to the sort of place where she could easily pick someone up, someone she didn’t know, would never see again and could screw for the sake of it, because it was what both she and Simon deserved.

She knew she’d never do it; the sexual practice involved in her revenge fantasy had a name, a sufficiently disgusting one to put her off making it a reality.

‘It’s not that I don’t want to do it, and it’s not that I want to do it with someone else,’ Simon said. ‘I swear to you. All right?’

‘Er . . . not really. What are you talking about?’

‘I should have tried to explain before.’

‘Try now. Trust me, if you think your work is done on the explanation front, you couldn’t be more wrong.’

‘I’m actually attracted to you. Physically.’

Charlie laughed. He made it sound like a recent discovery, one that amazed him.

‘I’d want nothing more than to go to bed with you if I didn’t know it was what you wanted too.’ He swore under his breath. ‘I don’t mean . . .’

‘You don’t mean you want to rape me,’ Charlie clarified.

‘No.’

‘It’s okay, Simon. I know you don’t mean that.’ She kept her tone steady. If anything happened to panic him now, they might lose this thread forever.

‘I mean that your wanting it to happen means it can, and . . . I suppose I’d rather it couldn’t because . . . it doesn’t feel right. It’s never felt right. Not because of you. None of this is anything to do with you. It’s me, something fucked up in me.’

‘Go on,’ Charlie said.

‘It doesn’t make sense.’ The line she’d heard so often, delivered with the same frustration. Except this time he wasn’t talking about some bizarre murder scenario. ‘There couldn’t be anything more private, but it’s not allowed to be, is it?’ he said, angry again. Because it was easier than being embarrassed or ashamed? ‘You have to do it in front of other people. Or, if you do it on your own, you’re a pervert. There’s—’

‘Hang on. In front of other people?’

‘I’m not talking about in public, in front of an audience,’ Simon muttered, staring at the floor. Both his fists were clenched. ‘Just . . . whoever you’re with.’

Charlie got it. He’d meant her. She was ‘other people’.

‘You’re saying it’s private, so you’re uncomfortable doing it in my presence?’
Don’t sound as if you can barely believe it
. ‘Even though I’m the person you’re doing it with?’

‘Which makes me a freak,’ Simon said impatiently. ‘Everyone does everything in front of the whole world these days. No one cares, no one thinks it’s strange. If I need a piss while I’m at work, I’m expected to do it in front of anyone else who happens to be hanging around the gents’ khazi. That’s always been true, but now . . . Nothing’s private any more. People are giving birth on telly, getting the results of paternity tests and lie-detector tests, accusing each other of all kinds of shit that they shouldn’t be talking about in public. People are dying on-screen, celebrities having their deaths filmed, euthanasia advocates documenting their own send-offs. You can watch Saddam Hussein getting executed on YouTube, for fuck’s sake! And, no, before you ask, I’m not comparing sex with you to a dictator getting what’s coming to him. All right?’

Charlie saw the mistake she’d made: she’d assumed it was about her, that Simon didn’t fancy her enough, or couldn’t shake off the memory of how promiscuous she’d been when he’d first met her. When she thought only about him and took herself out of the equation, what he was saying made sense. No, she corrected herself, it didn’t make sense and never would, not to her, but it was consistent with some of Simon’s other hang-ups. Until a couple of years ago, he had been unwilling to eat in front of her; he still hated the idea of being seen eating by other people. If Charlie ever suggested they go to a restaurant, he would pretend he was too tired and suggest ordering a takeaway instead.

He locked the door when he used the bathroom, every time. Charlie didn’t. Sometimes she didn’t even close it. Simon had never walked in, not once.

His parents were people who trembled with fear when the doorbell rang. Charlie had seen it happen, more than once. ‘Who’s that?’ they said, or even sometimes, ‘What’s that?’, as if they no longer recognised the sound of someone from the outside world wanting to interact with them.

Yes, it made perfect sense insofar as anything about Simon made sense. Charlie told herself to be happy that at last she knew, at last she understood what the problem was. Solving it could come later. There had to be a way.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Simon. ‘I don’t do that either.’

‘Do what?’

‘I don’t mean private like that – with a porn film, or a wank mag.’

‘I didn’t think you did.’

‘I’m not some kind of . . . deviant.’

‘I know that, Simon. I understand, but . . .’ God, this was hard. Being able to laugh would have helped. Or cry, or scream. ‘You’re kind of trapped then, aren’t you? Your inhibitions apply equally to having sex with me – in front of me, as you see it – and to what you’d call being a pervert. Which a lot of people wouldn’t think was perverted or wrong at all, by the way. Contrary to what your mother might have told you, it isn’t a sin. Everyone does it. Not necessarily using pornography, but—’

‘I don’t.’

‘Everyone else does. Ask around. And it’s not an either-or, on your own or with someone. You can do both. Both come highly recommended,’ she couldn’t resist adding. The basics of sex explained, in nutshell-compliant format.

Simon pushed past her to get to the stairs.
Conversation over
. Charlie wanted to ask what the plan was. They’d discussed the problem openly; that had to be a good thing. Did it mean Simon would be more self-conscious and awkward in future, or less so?

She followed him up the stairs, then nearly fell down them when he swung round to face her. ‘Jo,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’

‘Jo Utting.’

‘Even Jo Utting,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sure she wanks up a storm.’

‘
What?
That’s disgusting. I wasn’t, or I never will be again, talking about that. You called her Jo, not Johannah.’

‘It’s what she calls herself,’ Charlie countered.

‘You asked me who she is,’ Simon snapped. ‘If you don’t know who she is, how do you know what she calls herself?’

‘You’d have the answer to that question by now if you hadn’t assumed—’

‘Tell me what’s going on!’ Simon roared in her face. ‘This is important.’

Unlike what we were talking about before?

‘No,’ Charlie said. ‘Not until you apologise.’

‘I’m sorry. All right?’

‘Not all right. Too quick and therefore not at all satisfying. What are you apologising for?’

‘I don’t know.’ He looked around, as if he was hoping to see the right answer somewhere near the stairs or on the landing. ‘Anything, everything. Tell me. Please.’

‘I need a drink first, and to sit down.’ She wanted to add that she’d had a shock. It was true.

Simon sighed heavily, ran his hand over his face, and Charlie had a sense of a pulling apart, though they hadn’t been touching. Some binding force had been broken, and it was a relief; she had regained the ability to move and think freely, independently of his movements and thoughts. He had liberated her. Temporarily. He would always be able to stop her in her tracks at will, twist her perceptions, warp her sense of herself. Crazy to imagine that the likes of Ginny Saxon would ever be able to change that.

They didn’t speak as they poured drinks and went to sit in the lounge. Pretending to be civilised, normal people, Charlie thought, grabbing a beer and settling in for a nice relaxing evening. She knew she would have Simon’s full attention as soon as she started to tell the story. That was the difference between them, one of many. Even as she told him about Amber Hewerdine and Little Orchard, part of her mind would be on what she’d discovered about him, what he’d confessed to. Was that how he saw it also, as a confession? Would he think about it again later, or pretend to himself that the conversation had never taken place?

Charlie felt the need to match his confession with one of her own; if she could have added his shame to hers and felt all of it, for both of them, she gladly would have. She hoped he’d be able to forgive her what she now knew about him and not resent her understanding as another invasion of his privacy.

She told him about having posted copies of some of the Katharine Allen notes through Amber Hewerdine’s letterbox the previous night. She started to apologise, but Simon stopped her, told her he didn’t care, that he’d been thinking about doing it himself. ‘What else?’ he asked.