The Unreliable Placebo

by Gill Mather

  “Goodbye,” I say. I forget he’s maxed out. He must be able to pay as he wanted to come for this meal. I just want to get away.

  I'M RELIEVED TO be out of the presence of the Arsehole. I couldn't bear to have to live in the same house as him now and thank heavens he didn't try to force the issue. I'll try to get the house sold as quickly as possible in case he changes his mind. I have to go home and get changed before driving to Dennis's and also I want to double lock the doors and make sure the windows are locked too just in case the Arsehole does decide on an attempt at a forced entry. I just hope while I’m there, he doesn't arrive and start to argue his case again.

  I look around the house. It has no sentimental hold I’m pleased to say, this rural idyll so carefully chosen that was supposed to have become our family home. Someone else’s children can run up and down the lawn and play games in the cupboard under the stairs. To me it seems empty already. As I shut the doors to each room, the hollow sound echoes around, rebounding off walls and ceilings. I'm also relieved that we don’t have too much clutter to get rid of or transport to our respective new homes or even to the local tip unlike my old lawyer friend Tamsin who ran a practice from home.

  Lots of us toy with the idea of self-employment but I'm very glad I never bothered and can now put our house on the market at the drop of a hat without months of running down or disposing of a worthless legal practice and sorting out what to do with old files and office stuff. I’ll have a thorough clean up tomorrow and then ring the estate agents on Monday. For now I change into jeans and a jumper, check the locks again, scan the road outside for signs of the Arsehole and head off to Dennis's.

  Chapter 18 The Final Act

  IT’S A REASONABLE length journey to Dennis’s but I find his place without difficulty despite having only been there once before. Or actually twice if you count delivering Trixie to be with the cleaner for a day last December as well as collecting her later, though both times in the depths of winter. It was barely light in the early morning and almost pitch black after work.

  Dennis’s house is in a nice reasonable sized village off the A120. I don't think you could quite call it a town. But it has a main street and shops including a supermarket, and a comprehensive school as well as a primary, a large church and some outlying industrial areas. It’s possibly about the same size and ranking as Earls Colne in Essex but not quite as big as say Hadleigh in Suffolk which I think you probably would call a town and which was in fact a big centre of commerce in the middle ages when the wool trade was thriving.

  Dennis’s village is not far from the A120 and the A12 and therefore has the possibility of commuting to other towns for work or taking a train including to London. Dennis’s house is on the outskirts of the village in a cul-de-sac and it backs onto fields. Trixie would have to venture a fair way to any busy road from her owner’s rear boundary.

  The house is quite old. I’d say maybe possibly two to two hundred and fifty years old though not old-old as in ancient timbered. It looks like a Georgian or possibly a Victorian rectory given up by the C of E in recent decades as being too expensive to bring up to modern standards so that the current incumbent has to reside in a nineteen sixties monstrosity in the centre of the village some way from the church with no more insulation than the old vicarage, no fireplaces or chimneys and having to depend on out of date storage heaters and what remains of Economy Seven for heating. But from the look of it, the new vicarage has had its large picture windows replaced some time ago with cheap double-glazed sealed unit. As I drive past the new vicarage now I think I can see that some of the sealed units have failed and have misted. It’s very obvious at this time of year.

  There’s a bridle path at the back of Dennis’s garden, not for vehicular traffic but it might a hundred or more years ago have been one of the routes by pony and trap to get to the church which is a short distance further along the track. The track opens out into what was possibly the old village green outside the churchyard. I noticed this last December when I brought Trixie back to stay the day with the cleaner and prowled round the place in the poor December morning light. As I drive along the cul de sac to Dennis’s house, there are other older houses, some actually authentically timbered and thatched, and some more recently built houses, obviously the result of in-fill.

  I come to the end of the cul-de-sac and there is Dennis’s comfortable mellow red brick rectangular Georgian (probably) former rectory, with a slate roof and sash windows set a little way back from the lane. At each end of and tied into the old red brick front walls of the house there are high brick walls curving round to the road, shutting out the view of whatever may be at the rear and there are thick hedges to the sides of these walls with again no peep holes into the back garden. There are gates through these walls, a small pedestrian gate each side of the house and one larger double gate for vehicles I presume but you couldn't possibly see what may if anything be going on behind the walls.

  The house looks imposing but homely from the outside and I find I like it very well.

  I drive into the in-and-out gravel drive and park not quite next to the front door. Dennis immediately comes out of the house to greet me. He walks round to the off-side and opens my car door and I get out. He’s smiling as always and I have to resist the urge to throw my arms around his neck. I can't see any other cars but I can't discount the possibility that Cathy Earnshaw is there in the house somewhere even now, fully installed and baking a thumpin’ parkin and cutting up Wensleydale cheese for tasty bites for later, when all I can normally muster is M&S and Waitrose convenient ready-made canapés.

  “I’m so glad you could come,” Dennis says. “It’s rather cold today but I don't think Trixie’ll mind!”

  “Don’t worry. I’m wearing lots of layers and I’ve brought several extra.”

  “Trixie’s looking forward to seeing you,” he says which is sweet.

  But indeed she greets me like an old friend as I go into the front hall. She’s grown up quite a bit since I last saw her. She’s becoming a very attractive short-haired blue tabby as Dennis predicted but she still has kittenish qualities and throws herself on her back for a tummy tickle.

  “I haven't taken her out yet. I was waiting for you.” I feel honoured.

  I accept a cup of coffee. We stand in his country kitchen next to his Aga and discuss what we’ve been up to since he came and collected Trixie in December which in my case isn't anything I desperately want to share. The New Year’s Eve adventure, though uplifting for me, seems hazy and improbable and I don't rush to tell him about it. Dennis says he’s been to dinners and one or two parties and another breakfast at which he says he looked out for me but I wasn't there. I mustn't have received or noticed an invite.

  Trixie is full of energy and is peering out of the glass door at the back of the house which Dennis says she often does but so far she’s been denied access to the great outdoors.

  “Is it safe for her?” I say.

  “Well, the back garden’s mostly an old walled kitchen garden. There’s an ancient orchard beyond it and either side of that it’s a bit wild. Maybe you saw it when you brought Trixie here in December.”

  “Well there wasn't much time and it was quite dark in the morning and in the evening too but I did go out there and notice the lane at the very back leading to the church.”

  I don't say this but I’ve also looked it up on google earth. Nowhere is private these days. Whether a good or a bad thing I’m not sure. Maybe I should get a drone to hover over my own house for the next three months at least to check that the Arsehole isn't trying to move back in without telling me while I’m at work.

  “Will you still take her to work or let her have the run of the garden?” I say.

  “Eventually I’ll have to let her out all the time. We let our old cat out while we were both at work. There’s a cat flap already but obviously it’s not able to be used just now. For now though I’ll probably still take her to work most days.” He’s so caring.

>   “Well then,” Dennis says, “shall we make a start?”

  “No time like the present!” I say. It seems rather clichéd but in fact it will be getting dark quite soon. We only have about two hours of daylight left, maximum.

  “Right then.” He opens the back door and Trixie bolts out. She disappears immediately. It’s rather worrying and Dennis looks deeply concerned. But she appears again from behind a holly bush, gambols across the grass and goes behind the apple tree. The next time I see her she’s at least eight feet up the tree balancing precariously on a thin branch. She looks uncertain and won't go either way. She mews down at us.

  “Oh dear,” I laugh and walk to the base of the tree. I raise my hands and call her. She just mews. Dennis shakes his head and goes and gets a ladder, places it on the branch and climbs up it. Trixie naturally moves along the branch away from him.

  “I think we should sit down and just see what she does,” I say. “After all, it’s her time to explore and test things out. If she wants to come down she will.”

  Reluctantly Dennis climbs down the ladder, comes over to the garden bench and sits next to me with his hands in his lap watching Trixie apprehensively. Trixie alternately stands on and hangs from the end of the branch and mews pitifully at us.

  “I expect you’ll have to have Trixie neutered,” I say as she tries her hardest to seduce us over to her just so that she can no doubt then avoid our help and carry on appealing to us from further along the branch.

  “I suppose so,” he says reluctantly. “It seems an awful violation though to have half her insides extracted. I’ll have to think about it. Maybe there won't be any full toms anywhere nearabouts.”

  Hmm, I think. Along the road from my own house there’s a tumbledown old barn that I understand used to be a milking parlour at one time and stray cats still lurk about that sometimes, though village ladies have made valiant efforts to catch them in traps and get them neutered. Once there are no eligible females around, the toms that can't be caught tend to drift off looking for opportunities elsewhere. There are probably similar situations in this village and Trixie would no doubt present as a valuable find for a horny old feral feline roué. I believe that randy toms will travel long distances to encounter a viable female.

  “Well maybe you’ll be lucky. Anyway, thanks for asking me over,” I say. “Actually it couldn't have come at a better time.”

  “Well I’m pleased to hear that.”

  “My ex wanted to go out for lunch today and I thought it would be to press for a house sale etc, but it turned out he wanted to come back. I mean to me. Though I don't actually believe that, but it’s what he said to begin with.”

  “Oh,” says Dennis looking at me and taking his attention away from Trixie for the first time. “Will you agree to it?” His expression is a little hard to read. It’s quite intense but I can't really tell if an affirmative reply would especially discomfit him. Would he care? I imagine the scenario if I were to say that I was planning a reunion with the Arsehole, that I was over the moon, telling Dennis that he and I could still remain friends….

  “Anna?” he says urgently. This time he does look concerned.

  I laugh, more sort of a huff. “No thanks,” I say. “It’s much too late for that. But I suppose it always was. Ever since he….you know.”

  “Hmm,” says Dennis.

  “No. We’ll sell the house and split everything and that’ll be that. I expect that’s what you did.”

  “Yes,” Dennis says. “Except I bought her out of this house instead. I didn't want to leave it and she didn't care. It’s similar to the house I grew up in. It’s all sorted now. Very neat and tidy.”

  “I know. It sound trite, but that’s what I want now. I don't want a lot of aggro; him actually returning to the house and staying there for a lengthy period because he’s messed up his life.

  “Anyway,” I sigh, “have you….er….had any more conferences or anything away in the wilds of Yorkshire?”

  “No. It was just the one last year.”

  I’m dying to ask if he’s still seeing Cathy Earnshaw. She certainly doesn't appear to be here as I’d rather dreaded she might.

  “I did so enjoy having Trixie to stay last December,” I say hoping that this might prompt some revelation about his love life. “If you needed me to, I’d be happy to look after her again any time.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “It was a great help.”

  “Er, did you enjoy your stay in London? We didn't get much chance to speak when you brought Trixie back.” I do hope this doesn't sound too much as though I’m digging for information. I’ve always been an appalling liar and I’m sure he can see through my superficially innocent questions. Or at least that’s how I feel. I try not to go red in the face.

  “You OK?” he says. “You look a bit pink. I hope it’s not too cold for you.”

  “No, not at all.” In fact I’ve broken into a sweat beneath my several layers of insulation. I’ll have to remember not to wear a polyester fleece the next time I want to closely question someone while trying to appear nonchalant.

  I start to feel it coming on as it always does when something’s important to me. The nerves, the trepidation, actual physical discomfort. Shaking a little and my heart thumping like a sledgehammer. I know there’s only one thing for it which is to come out with it and be truthful.

  “So how did it go with The Lady of the North?” It just slipped out like that.

  Dennis laughs. “What do you mean?”

  “Sorry. It’s none of my business. I just meant the woman you met at the conference in the North of England. The lady you were going to meet in London. Don't say if you don't want to.”

  “She isn't a northerner,” he says looking at me. Trixie appeals to us as she dangles from the thin branch.

  “Well whatever she is then. But I shouldn't have said anything. It’s none of my business.”

  “She’s French actually.” He looks down at his hands. “She was just at this conference in Cumbria.”

  “Not Yorkshire then?”

  “Er. No. Not God’s own County, no.”

  “Oh. I mean there’s no reason why it should have been Yorkshire. You said the North of England and I just thought: Cathy Earnshaw.”

  Dennis laughs out loud. I feel such a fool. He must think I’m a complete idiot.

  “Well anyway,” he says, “it didn't go at all. We didn't get on that well. And it didn't seem right.”

  Oh, I think. No entente-by-ecky-thump. Or entente-cordiale either. No gi’ing it pasty or croissants all this time.

  Trixie’s branch at that point sways dangerously. Dennis gets up and stands under the tree ready to catch her if necessary but she gamely hangs on. Little by little she makes her way back along the branch to a stouter part of it and thence to the tree trunk. She slithers expertly down to the ground tail first. We applaud her loudly. I go over and we put our arms out to her but she dashes off to the far corners of the walled garden. We follow, hanging back so that she can explore further without our interference.

  Dennis leans against a plum tree and I lean against another nearby as we observe Trixie’s tour through the shrubbery.

  “The fact is,” says Dennis, “I haven't found anyone I like at all since last September/October. Not really.”

  “I suppose I’m the same. I honestly wish I hadn't bothered at all,” I say. “It’s just been one disaster after another.” I want to say that I don't mean my evening with him but of course it was a bit of a disaster by most standards. You couldn't call it a roaring success.

  “Actually,” he says, “I did enjoy our evening out together.” I’m grateful to him for saying this because I did too.

  “Me too,” I say, “actually.”

  “I mean,” he says, “it doesn't have to be a conventionally successful date to be enjoyable still, does it? I was….er….happy to be with you and….I still am.”

  I can't keep saying “me too”. I just nod and look at him and he looks at
me. I do so like him. He’s so very nice, feeble adjective that that is. We just look and look and turn to look at Trixie every so often. Eventually she romps over and I pick her up, all fluffy and cold from the outside and smelling of the clean fresh air. I cradle her on her back like a baby. She puts a gentle front paw out and touches my face. I hold the paw and kiss it. Dennis stands next to me and takes her other front paw in his hand and kisses that and looks at me, so close.

  There’s very little sound around us. The birds have sensibly gone to bed by now. A solitary crow caws in the distance. The evening is still and calm and a little misty. Dennis leans closer to me over Trixie and very gently he kisses my lips. I close my eyes. In my arms, Trixie starts to purr softly. I know how she feels. I wish it would go on forever. He whispers that we should maybe go in now and I notice that darkness has descended quickly, that it’s grown very cold. I look down and see that Trixie is fast asleep.

  BACK IN THE KITCHEN we put Trixie in her basket by the Aga. She stretches, yawns and closes her eyes again. Dennis appears a little embarrassed, as though he may have overstepped a mark. I do so hope that the “just good mates” business hasn’t overtaken us and set in firmly. I watch him put the kettle on and start to set out crockery. However I’m conscious after our kiss of the urgent need for a serious and extended tampering with my undergarments. A strong desire which couldn't be assuaged by a cup of Earl Grey or Orange Pekoe. We are on the cusp of something beautiful and wonderful which I’m convinced a shared pot of strong tea won't further or fulfil. Or at least Dennis doesn't seem like a hot beverage fetishist. I dare say there are a few about.

  But does it mean anything? A stray kiss, brought on perhaps by the calm of the evening and the fluffy, cuddly form of Trixie in between us. Maybe it’s wholly too presumptuous to be reading anything into it.