The Editor's Wife (19 page)

‘It's just a question of building up gradually,' Gerald said, helping himself to beef with a surprising lack of
restraint for someone only fifteen per cent carnivorous. ‘Now ten miles seems like nothing. I walked here all the way from Purley tonight, and I'm not even out of breath.'

I watched him carefully dissecting the stew, winkling out any mushrooms and piling them on the side of the plate. His childhood food prejudices were all still intact. Now, at least, he allowed the rejected items to remain within reasonable proximity to the rest of the meal, and no longer flipped them onto the mat.

‘You put us to shame,' said Owen. ‘Diana has been known to drive to the pillar box on the corner of our road to post a letter.'

‘It's just because I'm always in such a rush!' she protested. ‘But I admit, I am not terribly fit. When I gave up smoking I thought I'd done my bit, really.'

‘I could draw up a personal running plan for you,' Gerald offered.

Owen and I burst out laughing. ‘Somehow I can't see Diana pounding the pavements of Dulwich in a tracksuit,' he said.

‘Do you even own a pair of trainers?' I asked her.

She confessed that she didn't. ‘Jogging always strikes me as a bit lonely. If I was forced to do exercise I'd rather do something sociable like tennis.'

‘Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,' I said, and she stuck her tongue out at me.

‘It doesn't have to be lonely,' Gerald pressed on, undaunted. I wondered if I would ever get the conversation
back on track. ‘There are clubs you can join. That's how I met Peggy.' We observed a moment or two of respectful silence.

‘People do say exercise is as addictive as drugs,' said Diana, sceptically.

‘It's better than any drug,' Gerald declared, through a mouthful of stew. ‘I was on antidepressants for a year before I took up running again, and now I don't need them at all hardly.'

‘I never knew that,' I said, surprised into contributing. ‘What were you on antidepressants for?'

‘Depression,' said Gerald.

Owen and Diana murmured sympathetically.

‘But I'm fine now. This thing with Peggy's a bit of a setback, obviously. And being homeless. But as long as I keep up the running . . .'

I had an image of Gerald, loping off into the night, condemned to keep moving for all eternity to outrun his sorrows. I began to gather the plates, all empty now apart from drifts of inedible rice and Gerald's mushrooms. I was reluctant to abandon Owen and Diana in this conversational dead end, but short of dragging Gerald with me there was nothing I could do. I tasted again that bitter brew of shame and protectiveness that was my inevitable lot as Gerald's brother.

On the top of the fridge sat a chocolate soufflé, still in its packaging and not quite defrosted. Ice crystals bloomed on its surface like the first flowering of mould on a loaf. It had obviously been stored on the slant as the topping
had slid to one side. As I tried to peel away the plastic shell without demolishing the pudding, I heard the clip-clop of Diana's heels. Suddenly I saw the kitchen, the soufflé, the rice, the serviettes, Gerald, the whole ghastly evening through Diana's eyes, and felt such a crippling sense of inferiority that I could hardly bring myself to turn round and face her. If she looks at me with even a trace of sympathy, I thought, I will never, ever go and see her again.

But all she said was, ‘Where shall I put this dish?' – an entirely functional query, uninflected by knowingness, or amusement, or that feminine archness which in my present mood would have been like a knife in the ribs.

‘Just here,' I said, clearing a space on the hob before resuming my struggle with the soufflé. The fact that she had passed this little test wasn't quite enough to restore me to full confidence.

‘You haven't called round for a while,' she said, with a casualness that sounded almost rehearsed. ‘The twins have been asking where you are.'

This was patently bollocks. The twins had barely registered my existence, except as an occasional deflector of the full beam of maternal attention.

‘Well, I'll have to come and see them sometime,' I said, joining in the fraud. I opened the fridge door and slammed it again, recoiling from the sour smell. We could do without cream, I decided. Diana was still hovering in the doorway, wanting to be helpful.

‘By the way, I had lunch with Leila a while ago. Did she tell you?'

For a fraction of a second a shadow passed over Diana's face before her smile was back in position. ‘Oh, did you? That's nice. I didn't know you two were in touch.' Her voice was bright with unconcern. ‘I haven't seen her for ages. Since that meal with Ravi.'

‘We aren't “in touch”,' I said. ‘I just bumped into her up in London one day when I'd gone to see Owen, so we went for lunch.'

‘What a nice coincidence,' said Diana, beaming. Something deliberate in her cheerfulness made me suspicious.

‘You don't mind, do you?'

She almost flinched at this breach of good taste. ‘Mind? Of course not. Why should I mind?'

‘I don't know. I just thought . . . she's your friend. It might seem like poaching. I wouldn't want you to think . . .'

‘I don't think anything. Anyway, next time you see her . . .'

‘There isn't going to be a next time,' I interrupted. ‘I told you. It was just an accidental meeting.' Why was she wilfully inferring some sort of ongoing relationship?

‘Oh, you never know,' said Diana. ‘She's very attractive, don't you think?' She seemed to determined to promote Leila, if only to prompt further denials. I decided the only way to put a stop to this bizarre manifestation of proprietorial jealousy was to flatter her into submission.

‘No, I don't. I think she's totally unattractive. But then that's because I hold you up as a standard of beauty, Diana, and mortal women can't compete.'

‘Oh fuck off,' she said, happily.

Back at the table Owen – his face frozen in an expression of polite interest – seemed to revive at the prospect of an imminent interruption to Gerald's maunderings.

‘Here we are,' I announced, but Gerald was not so easily derailed.

‘. . . quite a good athlete at school . . . didn't have the support . . . pity . . . ironic . . . chess . . . Christopher . . .'

I wasn't concentrating on what Gerald was saying, in fact I was consciously tuning him out as I whacked the pudding into four, prompting cries of ‘Whoa!' from Owen and Diana. But as I handed out the overfilled bowls, certain words and phrases reached their target.

‘What were you saying about not having support?' I asked, unable to let it pass. ‘You don't mean Mum and Dad?'

Gerald stoked his mouth with soufflé before replying indistinctly. ‘I was just saying that Mum and Dad only came to watch me race once because they were too busy taking you to chess tournaments. That's why I quit, really. I think I might have become a successful runner if I'd had more encouragement.'

I looked at him in disbelief. ‘Gerald, that is complete horseshit and you know it. Mum and Dad stopped coming
to watch you because you told them to keep away.'

‘I seem to remember it was because they were taking you around the London chess circuit.'

‘Well you remember wrong. You said they couldn't come because they put you off. They were gutted actually, but you've conveniently forgotten that.'

It was beyond embarrassing to have this petty childhood conflict paraded before Owen and Diana, but Gerald's brazen fact-bending couldn't go unchallenged. It wasn't a case of defending our parents' honour – generally I was the first in the queue to criticise their infuriating habits and barmy values – but a reflex response to hearing lies offered up as truth.

‘I expect they found chess more exciting to watch than athletics,' Gerald went on, as though he hadn't heard me.

‘The reason you quit was you don't like losing,' I reminded him. ‘Nothing to do with Mum and Dad.'

‘You always got preferential treatment,' he said, broadening the focus of his resentment. It was my experience that once the words ‘always' or ‘never' had been uttered in an argument, the chances of rational resolution were slim.

‘Look, Gerald,' I said, as civilly as possible. ‘Mum and Dad may have had their faults, but I don't think favouritism is one of them.'

‘You don't notice favouritism when you're the favourite,' Gerald said, stirring his soufflé slowly until he'd knocked the air out, to create a viscous brown slop. This sounded suspiciously off-pat, and I wondered who'd got
him started on this psychotherapeutic parent-bashing in the first place.

‘I think a younger brother or sister often has things a little easier, Gerald,' Diana said, in her peacemaker's voice. ‘The oldest child has to be the trailblazer.' She and Owen had not so far contributed to the argument. Even their social skills and gifts of empathy were being severely tested by this ridiculous display of ancient grudge-harbouring.

‘I remember my younger sister getting away with murder,' Owen agreed. ‘It's the natural way of things. The oldest one has to batter down every obstacle, while the younger one breezes along behind enjoying the benefits.'

‘I wonder how it will work with twins,' said Diana, skilfully reclaiming the conversation.

‘Diana and Owen have got identical twin girls. Four years old,' I explained to Gerald.

‘Oh, really?' He looked suddenly mournful. ‘Peggy's got a four-year-old daughter. Daisy. I don't suppose I'll be able to see her any more.'

All routes seemed to lead us back to the subject of Gerald and his abandonment.

To my relief, Owen and Diana didn't linger long after the meal, using their teenage babysitter as an excuse. I remembered my manuscript only as they were at the door; in Gerald's company I ceased to think of myself as a writer, but reverted to an earlier incarnation: truculent younger brother.

Owen was incredulous. ‘Why didn't you say so earlier? This is fantastic. Can I take it with me now?'

‘Only if you're sure you've got time,' I said, modest after the various humiliations of the evening.

‘Of course. Do you want me to read it as a friend, informally, or are you submitting it to me as an editor?'

‘I don't know. Read it as a friend, I suppose, and then if you like it . . .'

‘OK. I'll let you know how I get on with it and we'll take it from there.' He seemed genuinely pleased.

‘It's my only copy,' I said, suddenly anxious about letting it go. ‘Perhaps I should get it copied first.'

‘I'll do it for you tomorrow at work,' Owen promised. ‘First thing. And I'll read it as quickly as I can.'

‘There's no hurry,' I lied. ‘Take your time.'

‘Put it out of your mind,' he advised. ‘Better still, get on with the next book.' He was only half joking.

‘There isn't going to be a next book,' I retorted. ‘I'm done.'

I waved Owen and Diana off at the front door, while Gerald obligingly cleared the table. On returning to my room the first thing I noticed was Diana's silver scarf draped over the back of her chair. I snatched it up and ran down the stairs, trailing yards of her velvety perfume, and nearly collided with Diana on her way up. The changeover was as smooth as a baton pass in a relay, but then halfway down the next flight she stopped.

‘You will come, won't you?' she called up, and then, as if she couldn't stomach too much pleading, ran on, and my answering ‘Yes' was lost in a clatter of heels.

In the kitchen Gerald was washing up with a limp green scourer. ‘Sorry if I spoilt your evening,' he said, all contrition now that we were alone. Not half an hour ago I would cheerfully have decked him, but Diana's parting remark had redeemed all the indignities that had gone before, and now I just felt sorry for him, sorrier still that I hadn't shown him any sympathy earlier, when there were witnesses.

‘It's OK, you didn't spoil it,' I said. ‘Dinner parties are crap anyway, aren't they?' I went back into my room to see if I could muster some bedding, knowing that I didn't have any ‘spare' anything.

The front doorbell let out a low growl. My heart leapt as I picked up the entryphone.

‘It's me,' said a crackly female voice.

‘Who's me?'

‘Zoe,' said the voice, with an edge of impatience.

‘Zoe!' I cried. ‘You came back!' I went bounding down the stairs with dog-like enthusiasm to meet her. Sex after all!

She endured my eager embrace without responding. ‘Look, change of plan,' I said. ‘We'll have to go to your place tonight. Gerald turned up halfway through dinner. His woman's just kicked him out and he's got nowhere to stay. Sabotaged the whole evening, talking about his cross-country running and his depression. Owen and Diana didn't know where to look. Nightmare. Anyway, he can have my bed. I'll just go and grab some stuff . . .'

‘Um, Christopher . . .' Her tone was apologetic, her
smile embarrassed. ‘I'm not actually staying. I've got a cab waiting.'

‘Oh?'

‘No, I just came back to get my things.'

‘Oh.' I felt the raising and dashing of sexual hope as a real physical pain, so that I was hardly listening to her next remark, which was, ‘Nigel's asked me to move in with him.'

‘Oh? Has he? And what did you say?'

‘I said yes. So I wanted to come and tell you that that's what I'm going to do. Before I do it. Because obviously I won't be able to keep coming over here, and . . .'

‘No, no, I suppose not. That's a pity.'

‘Yeah, well, if I'm going to give this a go I want to do it properly.'

‘Yes. Of course. Good plan.'

‘It's not been ideal, really, seeing both of you, and him not knowing. I suppose I've been waiting for something to push me into a decision.'