Nocturne (39 page)

‘
He
’
s right. I wouldn
’
t.
’

‘
You want me to tell him that?
’

‘
Yes,
’
I nodded,
‘
please.
’

Gary left soon afterwards. Only when we were in the hall did he
stoop to peck me on the cheek.

‘
It
’
s a fucking shame,
’
he muttered.
‘
We had a few laughs, didn
’
t
we?
’

‘
We did.
’

‘
Yeah,
’
He
opened the front door, looking out at the street.
‘
Still,
can
’
t be helped, eh?
’

Back in the kitchen, depressed as hell, I opened Brendan
’
s envelope.
Gary had been right about the money. Inside, stapled to a note, was a
cheque for
£5
,000.
When I read the note it wasn
’
t at all clear what the
money was for but the payee was definitely me and I suppose it helped
a bit to know that finding some kind of work wasn
’
t quite as pressing
as I
’
d thought. If I was careful with the money I
’
d managed to save,
£5
,000
would last me well into the autumn. Once I
’
d got my little boat
trimmed out again, maybe I could make some sensible decisions.

I took Brendan
’
s note through to the front room. The fact that I was
beginning to miss him I was determined to put down to force of habit
but hearing his voice behind the scribbled
phrases didn
’
t help at all. He
said that he was sorry for everything
that had happened. He admitted
that he
’
d been keeping thi
ngs from me but said there were
good
reasons why. One day, maybe, there
’
d b
e a chance to explain properly and then I might understand.
In the me
antime I was to take very great
care and try not to think the worst
of him. At the end of the note,
typically, he
’
d signed off with a flourish. The
re were some winds, he
’
d
written, that were too strong even for me.

I read the note for a third time, beginning to realise that he wasn
’
t
talking about
Home
Run
.
This laboured apology, this plea in mitigation, was to do with us.
He
’
d been keeping secrets. He
’
d tried to
weather some kind of crisis. And he
’
d failed. I folded the note and
returned it to the envelope, trying to resi
st the temptation to get out my
magnifying glass, and crawl all over t
he last few months we
’
d shared,
looking for clues to what had really happened.

When it came down to the pair of us - flesh on flesh
- I
was pretty
certain I hadn
’
t been fooling myself. I
’
d
been through enough affairs to
distinguish between make-believe and
the real thing, and I knew that
those times together had touched us bo
th in the deepest places. Apart
from anything else, in this one resp
ect he
’
d find me bloody hard to
replace and if there was anything o
f the real Brendan in the warm,
generous man I
’
d made love to, then he was in for s
ome very lonely
nights indeed. This knowledge was far from comforting, chiefly
because it applied equally to me. You simply can
’
t give so much of
yourself away, pile your chips so recklessly on a single square, and
then just shrug it off when the run of the dice turns against you. Life,
thank Christ, isn
’
t like that. We
’
d loved each other. And we
’
d lost it.
And that was a very great shame.

Still in a daze, I heard Gilbert clatte
ring downstairs and out through
the front door. Since I
’
d been back, I
’
d scarcely been aware of him at
all - no flute, no prowling up and dow
n all night - but now there was
no avoiding the man. Not only was the
re a spring in his step, but he
was whistling, something I
’
d never k
nown him do before. I turned in
the chair, looking over my shoulder,
watching him lope off down the
street. His head was up and the
slouch had gone. Maybe it
’
s the
weather, I thought. Or maybe he
’
s turned some personal corner.
Whatever the reason, I was glad for both of us. One crisis was quite
enough.

Andi from work phoned an hour or so later. She
’
d been wanting to
get in touch but she
’
d lost my number and when she
’
d gone into the
computer for the personal details we were
all obliged to register, she
’
d
found that mine had been deleted.

‘
You
’
re a non-person,
’
she giggled.
‘
Lucky thing.
’

We chatted for a while. Once she
’
d sussed that I wasn
’
t suicidal,
conversation was easy, the usual swamp of office gossip. As soon as I
decently could, I steered her round to Brendan.

‘
How is
he?’ I
inquired.

‘
He
’
s OK. Manic as ever.
’

I could hear how guarded she
’
d suddenly become and for one awful
moment it occurred to me that he might have shacked up with
someone else.

‘
What
’
s he up to?
’

‘
The usual. Chasing sponsors, sweet-talking the networks, you
kn
ow, smoothing his way around.
’

‘
I
didn
’
t mean that.
’

‘
Ah
…
’

There was a long silence. I pointed out
that I
’
d more or less got over
it. The worst had come and gone.
Nothing she said could possibly
make any difference.

‘
OK,
’
I could visualise Andi nodding.
‘
So are you ready for this?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
He
’
s gone back to his wife.
’

‘
Sandra
?
’

‘
The very same.
’

‘
Moved back in?
’

‘
As we speak.
’

For some reason, God knows why, it was the last thing I expected.
I’d been living in a world of hotel bedrooms, expense account meals, and limitless free Moet, an agonising fantasy scored for some outrageous bimbo with legs the length of my body and talents to match.
Instead, my ex-lover had chosen to return to the dungeon and shackle
himself to the bitch-queen. Poor Brendan. Poor, sad man.

‘
Why ?
’
I heard myself saying.

‘
That
’
s what we
’
re all asking.
’

‘
And Sandra?
’

‘
She probably knows, at least I imagine she does. Maybe she
’
s got
something on him, maybe he
likes
getting beaten up.
’

My mind was racing ahead. Brendan was probably back with the
shrink by now, pouring his heart out. Eit
her that, or he
’
d be into heavy
drugs again - though a moment
’
s thou
ght told me there wasn
’
t enough
cocaine in the world to buffer the likes
of Brendan from his wife. They
were totally different animals, different
species even. In any self-respecting zoo,
Sandra
would have an enclosure all of her own.

‘
That
’
s incredible,
’
I said at last.
‘
I
’
m not sure I believe it.
’

‘
It
’
s true. Definitely. I had to get him on t
he phone this morning. She
wanted a price on the new set for
Members
Only
.
’

‘
Where was he?
’

‘
At home.
’

Home was De Beauvoir Square. That
’
s where he
’
d lived. That
’
s the
place we
’
d made our own. Sandra lived north, a lordly
Edwardian pile Brendan
had once shown me from the car.

‘
You mean Highgate?
’

‘
Yeah, the family pad. He
’
s been back there a couple of days now.
Doesn
’
t come in until late morning.
’

‘
And she phones him?
’

‘
All the time.
’
She giggled again.
‘
I
’
m sure she
’
s doing it for our
benefit really. She
’
s making a point. It
’
s all kissy-kissy. You should
hear it. Yuk.
’

I tried to imagine Sandra getting herself around the simplest
endearments. Even saying please was a skill she
’
d never mastered.

‘
I don
’
t get it,
’
I said.
‘
I
just don
’
t get it.
’

‘
Neither does he, probably,
poor
fool that he is. Tell me, Jules
…
‘

‘
What?
’

‘
Why do men always fuck it up?
’

Why indeed? I took Brendan
’
s cheque to the bank that afternoon and
spent longer than I should have done filling in the deposit slip. The
conversation with Andi had roped me to the memories of the
spring
and early summer and I hauled myself b
ack over those blissful months,
testing every knot, every memory, look
ing once again for clues. Where
had I gone wrong? What had I missed?