Man and Wife (16 page)

This impostor was dressed like a cowboy.

A fringed shirt. Pointy-toed, stack-heeled boots. Tight, skinny Levi’s with a big buckled belt. You could almost see the bulge of his ageing meat and two veg. Glen Campbell’s granddad.

‘Howdy, pardner,’ he repeated, slowly getting up out of my dad’s chair. Taking his time about it. ‘Tex is the name. You must be Harry. Mighty pleased to meet you, stranger. Elizabeth has told me all about you.’

Nanci Griffith was singing ‘Lone Star State of Mind’. My
mum came into the living room carrying a tray of tea and biscuits, humming to herself.

‘I see you’ve met Graham, dear,’ she said.

‘Graham? I thought—’

‘Tex is my line-dancing name,’ he said, without a trace of shame. ‘Graham – I don’t know. It just doesn’t sound right when you’re doing the Walkin’ Wazi, does it?’

‘Ooh, you should see Graham – I mean Tex – doing the Walkin’ Wazi,’ my mum chuckled, passing around the ginger nuts. ‘He really kicks his old legs in the air.’

A line-dancing friend. So that was it. Perfectly innocent. Nothing suspicious. Two sprightly OAPs having a bit of a boogie in the autumn of their years. Completely natural. But I couldn’t help it. I was still stunned by the presence of Tex.

My mother – who had six brothers, who had no daughters or sisters, who had spent her entire life surrounded by men – had always been strictly homosexual in her friendships. Every friend she ever had was a woman. Apart from my dad. He was her best friend of all.

‘Met your mother when we were doing the Four-Star Boogie,’ he said, as if reading my mind. ‘Gave her a few tips. Her and—Elsie?’

‘Ethel,’ my mum said. ‘The Four-Star Boogie.’ She tutted at the memory. ‘That’s such a tough one. All that turning.’

‘Pivoting,’ Tex gently corrected her. ‘The Four-Star Boogie is a four-wall line dance,’ he informed me, as if I gave a toss. ‘As opposed to something like the Wild, Wild West, which of course, as you probably know, is only a two-wall line dance.’

‘You from round these parts, Tex?’

‘Southend. Straight down the A127, take a right at the old Fortune of War.’

‘Graham was an insurance salesman,’ my mum said. ‘Retired now, of course.’

Tex poured the tea. ‘One lump or two?’ he asked me. ‘I’m sweet enough already.’

My mum guffawed at this as though it was Noël Coward at his pithy best. When she went back into the kitchen for
the milk chocolate digestives, I excused myself to Tex and followed her.

‘I thought you went line dancing with Auntie Ethel?’

‘Ethel’s dropped out. It’s her arthritis, Harry. All that stomping gives her gyp. Poor old thing.’

‘What’s John Wayne doing in our front room? What’s he doing in Dad’s chair?’

‘He’s all right, old Graham. Don’t worry about him. He’s harmless. He gives me a lift home in his car. He’s a bit full of himself, I grant you. All the old girls have got a soft spot for him.’

‘What about you?’

‘Me?’ My mum laughed with genuine amusement. ‘Don’t worry, Harry, I’m past all that. When I ask a man in for tea and biscuits, that’s exactly what I mean. All he’s being offered is a custard cream.’

‘Does Tex know that?’ I thought of the obscene rise in the old gent’s Levi’s. Although my mum was in her seventies, I could see how she might catch the eye of some randy old git. She was still a lovely-looking woman. ‘He’s not going to start reaching for his six-gun, is he?’

I said it with a grin, to pretend that I already knew the answer.

But my mum wasn’t smiling now.

‘I had a husband,’ she said. ‘That’ll do me for one lifetime.’

‘Your mother needs to express her sexuality,’ my wife said. ‘She’s still a woman.’

‘She’s a little old lady! She should be expressing – I don’t know – her knitting.’

We were getting undressed for bed. Something we had done perhaps one thousand times before. It still excited me to see my wife taking off her clothes. The long limbs, casually revealing themselves. I don’t think she felt quite the same way about watching me put on my stripy pyjamas.

‘I think it’s great she’s got a male friend, Harry. You know how much she misses your father. You don’t want
her to sleep with the light on for the rest of her life, do you?’

‘She was with my old man forever. She’s bound to miss him. And it’s right she misses him.’

‘Am I supposed to be faithful to you when you’re dead?’

I snorted. ‘I’ll be happy if you’re faithful to me when I’m alive.’

She froze inside the T-shirt she was pulling over her head. Then her face appeared, her eyes narrowing. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Come on.’

‘You just seem a bit too friendly with that guy.’

‘Luke?’

‘Is that his name?’

‘Jesus Christ, Harry. I’m not interested in Luke. Not that way.’

‘You said he wants—’

‘I don’t care what he wants. Wanting is not the same as getting. He’s smart enough to see what I’m doing with the company. He knows I can help his business. I think he can help mine. I admire him, okay?’

‘You admire a sandwich merchant?’

‘He’s a brilliant businessman. He’s worked hard for everything he’s got. I know he’s a bit flash. I know you didn’t like what he said about Eamon. I didn’t like it either, okay? But this is strictly business. Do you honestly believe I would think about him in that way? I don’t go around shagging anything that moves, Harry. I’m not a man. I’m not you.’

‘So how does it work? You and old Luke? I’m just curious about your relationship.’

‘His company has more work than it can handle. If something comes up and they’re fully stretched, he calls me.’

‘No – I mean how does it work with you and him? On that other level. Does he know you’re not interested in him that way? Is he cool about that? Or is still hoping to get his hands on your canapés? Don’t tell me, because I know the answer.’

I knew I should have shut up by now but I couldn’t stop myself. I was afraid that I was losing her. Which was kind of ironic, as I was the one who went knocking on Gina’s door when I knew she wasn’t home.

‘Shall I tell you what makes me sad, Harry? You think he’s only interested in me for one thing. Maybe – just maybe – he’s interested in me for two or three reasons. Did that ever cross your mind? Why do you find it so hard to believe that someone could like me for what I can do? Not for what I look like? Why is that so hard?’

Because I am still crazy about you, I thought. Because I can’t imagine any man looking at you and not feeling exactly what I feel. But I said nothing.

‘I don’t even want to talk to you.’ She turned on her side, angrily killing the light. I turned on my side, reached for the light.

We lay in the darkness for a while and when she spoke there were no tears in her voice, no anger. Just a kind of bewilderment.

‘Harry?’

‘What?’

‘Why do you find it so hard to believe that you’re loved?’

She had me there.

Kazumi had told me she took a photography class in Soho every morning. After a couple of practice runs, I found that if I timed it just right, I could catch her on the short walk from Gina’s home to the tube station. I couldn’t believe that I was doing this thing. But I did it just the same.

I pulled up to the kerb beside her, sounding my horn, the stalled rush-hour traffic howling with protest behind me. I tried to look surprised.

‘Kazumi. I thought it was you. Listen, do you want a lift into town? It’s not out of my way or anything.’

She got in, a little reluctantly, not as pleased to see me as I’d hoped she would be. She was struggling with a large cardboard box with ‘Ilford photographic paper’ written on the front. She
had a couple of cameras with her. But she didn’t look anything like a tourist.

I asked her how she liked London, what techniques she was studying right now, if she missed Japan. I talked too much, babbling mindlessly, my cheeks burning, too excited to see her. Eventually she managed to get a word in.

‘Harry,’ she said.

Not Harry-san? Not honourable, respected Harry? I admit I was a little disappointed.

‘You’re married, Harry. With a beautiful wife. A wife you love very much.’ It was all true. She stared out at the paralysed, angry traffic, shaking her head. ‘Or am I missing something?’

No, I thought. It’s me. It’s me who’s missing something. And suddenly I knew exactly what it was.

The smell of Cajun cooking.

Cyd was in the kitchen experimenting with red beans, rice and what was probably a catfish when I dumped the pile of glossy brochures on her chopping board.

‘What’s that?’

I picked one up at random, showed her the palm trees, blue seas and white sand, like a street trader showing off his wares. ‘Barbados, darling.’ I began flicking through the brochures. ‘Antigua. St Lucia. The Cayman Islands.’

‘Are you crazy? We can’t go to the Caribbean. Not now.’

‘Then what about the Maldives? The Red Sea? Koh Samui?’

‘I’m not going to Thailand, Harry. I have to work.’

I took her hands in mine. ‘Run away with me.’

‘Don’t touch me. I smell all fishy.’

‘I don’t care. You’re the love of my life. I want to take you to some tropical paradise.’

‘What about Peggy?’

‘Peg comes too. The Indian Ocean. Florida. Anywhere in the world. For a couple of weeks. For a week. She can snorkel. Get a tan. Ride the banana boats. She’ll love it.’

‘I can’t take her out of school.’

‘Gina took Pat out of school.’

‘I’m not Gina. And we can’t go away for two weeks.’

There were other brochures. Skinny ones, with glittering urban landscapes on the cover instead of sun-drenched beaches.

‘Then what about a mini-break? Just for a few days? Prague. Venice. Or Paris – Pat loved Paris.’

‘I’m too busy at the moment, Harry. Work’s really taking off. Sally and I can hardly handle it. We’re thinking of taking someone else on.’

‘Barcelona? Madrid? Stockholm?’

‘Sorry.’

I sighed. ‘Do you want to see a movie? Maybe we could get something to eat in Chinatown. Sally can babysit.’

‘When did you have in mind? Sundays are good for me.’

So my wife and I took out our diaries and, surrounded by her experimental Cajun cooking, we tried to find a window for romance.

part two:
your heart is a small miracle

thirteen

My wife.

I could always spot her across a crowded room. Something about the curve of her face, the tilt of her head, the way she pushed her hair out of her eyes. Just a glimpse was all it took. I couldn’t mistake my wife for anyone else. Even when I wasn’t expecting to see her.

It was a party at the station to launch the new season of programmes. Wine and canapés, gossip and flattery, a speech from Barry Twist about forthcoming attractions. An evening of compulsory fun. There was a lot of that in my game. And even though Eamon was officially resting and there was no
Fish on Friday
in the spring schedule, I thought I should be there. Marty Mann’s advice had been nagging at me more than I cared to admit. Maybe I should be searching around for new talent, looking to diversify. Maybe only a fool pinned all of their hopes on just one person. But right now I couldn’t think about any of that because my wife was here. I pushed my way through the crowd. Cyd was not surprised to see me.

‘Harry. What are you up to?’

‘Working.’ If you could call it working, these few hours of small talk and Chardonnay. My old man would have considered it a big night out. For me it was another day toiling at the coalface. ‘How about you?’ Although of course I had guessed by now.

‘Working, too.’ For the first time I noticed she was holding a silver tray by her side, empty apart from a few crumbs of fish
cakes or satay. ‘Sally’s babysitting for me. I mean –
us
. I got a call this afternoon. Luke and his people usually cater for this do, but they’re snowed under right now. It’s a good job for me to get.’

Luke
. Wanker.

We smiled at each other. I was so glad to see her. I was feeling party-lonesome until her face was suddenly there. Cyd had been to quite a few of these evenings with me, although not recently. And although she never ducked these dos, this wasn’t really her thing at all – too much smoke, too much alcohol, and too much meaningless chitchat with people she would never see again, people who were always looking over your shoulder for someone more famous. Too much like hard work. But she had been with me in this room before, so it didn’t seem that strange to see her here. Even with a silver tray in her hands.

I touched her arm. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

She laughed. ‘Got to work, babe. I’ll see you later, okay? We can go home together, if you can stick around until I’ve cleared up.’

She gave me a peck on the cheek and went back to the kitchen to load up with more satay and fish cakes, while I wandered around the party trying to avoid people who would want to talk about Eamon and his nervous exhaustion. There was a bank of TV sets in the middle of the room, repeating a loop of trailers for the new season’s shows. A lot of Marty Mann shows.
Six Pissed Students in a Flat
was coming back, so was the CCTV programme,
You’ve Been Robbed!
I stood there nursing my beer, watching the tasters for irreverent game shows, irreverent talk shows and irreverent dramas.

Tired old irreverence, I thought. It’s killing television.

A couple of suited and booted business types appeared by my side, tossing peanuts into their mouths and gawping at the screens as though they had never seen a television before. They couldn’t be from the TV station or any of the production companies that made the shows, because they were far too formally dressed. We had a strict dress code at the station – you had to be fashionably scruffy at all times. Maybe they were
advertisers, invited to give them a taste of cut-price glamour.

Cyd brushed past me carrying two silver trays piled high with sashimi. She gave me a wink, and bent to place one of the trays on a table. The men turned away from the bank of screens, their jaws working furiously on their peanuts.