We’re lucky at the shop that Nicki, a second-year student, is on holiday, and wants as many hours as she can get. This time of year is busy enough with a full complement of staff, never mind without Sam. She works all day, and Ruth and I split the other shift, so we only see each other in passing. I get away at four and hurry home. When I get there, Julia’s car is in the drive. She’s here. I nearly trip over her bag in the hall, hang up my coat and find her sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. She’s heard me come in, and I glimpse an expectant expression on her face before her eyes widen and her mouth forms into an o. It takes me a second to figure out what’s wrong.
‘Good Lord, Simon!’
‘Hi, darling.’
‘Simon, my God.’ She pushes herself away from the table and stands. Her hands reach for my face but she doesn’t dare touch it. ‘What in God’s name did they do to you?’ Tears spring to the corner of her eyes, and she throws her arms around me, clutching me as if I might slip away at any moment. I try not to let her feel me wince. My back is the tenderest part, as I must have curled up to protect myself from the fists and feet. I never liked trainers much, but I’m lucky I got beaten up while they’re in fashion. Had my assailants been wearing boots, I’d have been in real trouble.
I stiffen and she loosens her grip, now exploring my back with her fingertips. It’s a back she’s known for many years, and the unfamiliar swellings down my spine and on my ribs horrify her. She starts to shake. Her hands fly away and up to her mouth. The tears are now falling. I’ve never seen her like this.
‘Simon … I … Is it all right to …? I can’t even touch you …’ Sobs now; brutal sobs, and she shrinks in front of me, as if retreating into herself and back in years, metamorphosing into the little girl who was allowed to cry, but whom someone would take to one side and tell that everything was ok. That’s my job now. I wrap my arms around her and let her rest her cheek on my chest. I stroke the back of her head and whisper into her ear.
‘It’s all right, I’m fine. Really. I’m fine.’ I’m close to tears myself. I’d forgotten, I think, how much she loves me. Why? Because I’ve no idea why she does. I need to learn to let that be up to her. I hold her tighter. ‘I’m ok.’
When she’s composed herself, and I’ve brought out a bottle of wine and some nibbles, we sit facing each other at the table. I tell her the whole story.
‘Have you been to hospital?’
‘No.’
‘Jesus, Simon, you could have been killed.’ She fights down another sob, and swallows it with a sip of her wine.
‘I’m ok. Really.’
‘Thank God.’ She squeezes my hand, and I rest the other one on hers. We sit like that for a few seconds.
‘I tidied the house.’
‘I noticed,’ she says with a smile. ‘And you mowed the lawn. I never thought you had it in you.’
‘I need to get the rubbish down the tip. It’s all in the shed.’ Along with the beaten, battered, stabbed and sliced corpse of Frankie.
‘I saw. There’s quite a lot.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve thrown a few other things out, too.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like my feeble attempts at carpentry.’ A laugh escapes her lips. ‘God, I’m bloody awful at that. I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me think I could do it.’
‘To be honest, sweetheart, I think you could do anything you wanted to do. I just thought you might lack the patience for something like that.’
‘And you’d be right.’
‘I just wish you hadn’t spent quite so much money.’
‘I know. What a lemon. But it’ll sell easily enough on eBay. Next time I’ll take up something cheap, like origami.’
‘That sounds perfect.’ We smile at each other.
‘Can I borrow your car tomorrow, and I’ll get rid of the rubbish before I go to work?’
‘It’s amazing. I’ve come home to a new husband! Of course you can. I’m going to have a lazy, lazy day.’
‘I imagine you deserve it. How’s the dig going, by the way?’
‘Ugh. Don’t ask. It’s such slow going, I can’t tell you.’
‘Well perhaps you’d like to tell me over a Chinese meal. I want to pamper you tonight.’
‘That sounds wonderful. Do you mind if I take a shower now?’
‘Not at all, as long as you don’t mind if I barge in.’
‘I don’t mind one bit. I suppose I’m going to have the world’s cleanest breasts again?’
‘That’s very possible.’
‘I’ll see you in there, gorgeous.’ We both lean over the table as she half gets to her feet, and kiss. I watch her walk out, then something occurs to me: I haven’t heard from Emily since I escaped from her father’s flat. It makes me wonder when he’s back from America. Well, I’m not going to risk him finding me, and I’m not going to see her again. I’ve been stupid, and I won’t be any more. After a short wait, the sound of water travelling along the pipes signals that Julia’s in the shower. I scurry into the hall, fish my ancient phone from my jacket pocket and take it back to the kitchen. Off comes the back and out comes the battery. I pick out the SIM, wondering again about the character who insisted I keep it. It might just have been to minimise my reasons for going to the police, but there was still something honourable about his behaviour which touches me. With a shake of the head, I let it tumble into the bin and reassemble the phone, which I put back into the drawer I found it in. No more Emily, and now her father can only get me at the shop. And my wife’s upstairs, and naked, and wet. The bathroom beckons.
Julia’s skin is looser than Emily’s. She has very fine wrinkles on her back and between her breasts. Her breasts are softer, her bottom less firm. She sweats more than Emily. Emily’s skin is taut and smooth, like stretched rubber. She looks, and feels, young. But Julia smells like home, and I know her body as well as I know my own.
I manage not to balls up dinner. We drink another bottle of wine, watch television and go to bed together. I don’t think about the past or the future. I don’t think about killing anyone.
‘Have you got something against me?’
Ruth meets my gaze. ‘I just want to leave.’
‘Is it something I did?’
‘I don’t want to talk about this.’
‘So you’re going to go on sulking–’
‘Sulking?’
‘Yes! Sulking! You’ve been flouncing around the place, barely saying a word to me–’
‘Flouncing.’
‘Well, something. Stomping, then. Just bloody angry. You’ve been impossible.’
‘Right. That’s it. You listen to me. I’ve been impossible? Me? You, Simon, are the most arrogant, selfish and stupid person I’ve ever worked for. And you’re spineless. Spineless. What you did to Sam was unforgivable.’
‘What I did? I wasn’t the one–’
‘Yes you were. You let him borrow those cigarettes. You let him.’
‘But he knew the consequences if he forgot to pay.’
‘But he didn’t forget to pay, you … you … He got hurt, and all you needed to do was say, that’s all. You might have got a slap on the wrist but you knew they’d fire him, you knew it, and you let them do it. You’re spineless.’
‘I am not spineless. He knew the consequences. He could have said something, he could have said he had permission from me, but he didn’t. He knew it would mean trouble for me, and he appreciated that I’d let him do it. Why? Because I was too soft to change what was going on here. I should have stamped on it straight away, but I was too nice to you both.’
‘Nice? That’s rich. Always on our backs about jobs we could do with our eyes closed, always talking down to us as if we were idiots, never letting us do anything different–’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Everything has got to be your way. You didn’t let us do anything, you never let me do anything. Put that here, put this there, and don’t change anything. And while
we’re on the subject, you’re boring, you’ve got no sense of humour, and you’re creepy.’
‘What?’
‘The way you toady up to the female customers. I can’t stand it.’
‘I see.’
‘And I need to get away from you as soon as I can, because I can’t stand to be near you.’
‘I see.’
‘Right.’
‘Is that all?’
Ruth is about to say something else, but decides to wait for my counterattack. She’s set her face and braced herself. She wants me to retort. A month ago I would have done, I’m sure. I should, according to all measure of how well I know myself, be furious. I should be lining up a barrage of abuse to fire back at my assistant manager, aiming below the belt and trying to be as hurtful as possible as a means of deflecting the sting of what she’s said to me. But I’m not furious. I’m not even angry. My irritation dissolved like breath into cold air when she said she couldn’t stand to be near me. It’s been replaced by … what? A heavy feeling in my stomach and in my throat. Remorse, maybe? Self pity? I don’t like it. I don’t know what to say to Ruth, and just end up looking at her.
‘Well?’ she says.
‘Well you’ve said your piece. I can’t make you like me. My wife says I’m useless at reading people.’ I turn to walk out of the office, but stop in the doorway. I don’t turn around. ‘I never told you, but you’re an excellent assistant manager. I told Mick, but I forgot to tell you. I should have let you express yourself more, but … but change makes me nervous. And I don’t like to admit mistakes, I think. I’m not sure. I think the Sam episode was a mistake. It’s probably too late to fix it, but I’ll have a chat with Mick. And let’s get through Christmas on civil terms. The atmosphere’s bad for business.’ Head bowed, I walk out of the office and down the stairs.
It’s the end of my shift. Time to go home to my wife.
A cold early evening. The clouds have cleared and the stars are glinting above the gathering mist. The walk through the park doesn’t appeal to me today, so I carry on past Station Road and up the hill to Fifty Acres. I think I’ve let it go. That final, destructive assault on Frankie seemed to siphon the last of the violence from me. I’ve seen too much unpleasantness in the last month, and I’ve lost the taste for it.
I turn my thoughts to more wholesome matters, like what to buy Julia for Christmas. I’ve had my share of unmitigated disasters on that score, and I want to get it right this time. Definitely out of the question are clothes or jewellery, because apparently I’ve got no taste. Ditto shoes. She’s bought all the music she likes already, and I wouldn’t know where to start with those arthouse movies she’s taken a fancy to, so CDs and DVDs are probably not an option. However, instead of recorded music, perhaps a concert? Or an opera? We could even take a long weekend somewhere romantic, like when I’d planned to propose.
I was at my best back then, on the boyfriend front. We’d been back together for two years, and she’d started her PHD at Whitbury University. I’d spent a few months temping after my degree, but Viva Vino had just offered me a post as sales assistant, and I felt there was a future in it, so I wanted to celebrate. With some of the money from my grandmother’s will, I booked us a hotel in Rome and bought a ring. I’d even reserved dinner for two at a swanky restaurant by the Spanish Steps, which Peter recommended for me.
That conversation had been interesting. I remember feeling awkward about telling my family I was going to propose. I could imagine my father tutting and shaking his head, and grumbling to Mum or to his friends in the pub about how I was too young, and that it would never last. He’s like that. He won’t tell you to your face. Then one day Mum will sidle up to you and murmur something about what “your father” thinks. Or he’ll be proved right and declare that he said so all along, except he never said so to me, so what was the point? So I didn’t want to tell Mum and Dad, but Peter had been to Rome with his new girlfriend Sarah, who he ended up marrying, the previous spring (Sarah’s family was loaded, and she paid for everything, although Peter would never admit it) and I hadn’t yet heard of TripAdvisor, so I needed advice.
I hadn’t wanted to tell him, but he pressed me about why I was so interested in Rome, and then why I wanted to go to that restaurant in particular, and I had to explain that it was because he’d said it was the most romantic place he’d ever been – in one of his famous self-esteem-sapping speeches about what amazing things he was doing all the time – and so he got curious, and there was a funny look on his face. It was a cross between inquisitiveness and intensity; his eyes took on a steely aspect and his manner became brisk, although he was doing his best to act naturally. I eventually let on about my planned proposal, and I didn’t expect the reaction I got.
‘What? You can’t propose there, that’s our restaurant.’
‘What do you mean, your restaurant?’
‘We discovered it, Sarah and I.’
‘So?’
‘So … so what if I wanted to propose to her? There’s a very good chance I’d want to do it there.’
‘Then great. I’d be very happy for you. Of course, you’ve only known her a year.’
Peter bristled. ‘What do you know? She’s really special.’
‘I’m sure she is. So what’s that got to do with me and Julia? Hundreds of people must go to that restaurant every day. Unless you put a sign out, saying, Reserved for Peter Cheese. In which case, they’d be bankrupt by now.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Well you don’t be ridiculous, then. All I want to do is to be a proper boyfriend for a change. I want to propose to Julia, and I want to do it in the most romantic city in the world where I know there’s a good restaurant. I’m asking you because you know where there is one. I’m not trying to steal your experience of Rome, or somehow leapfrog you in the “Who’s the best boyfriend” stakes–’
‘Yeah, right.’
I realised then what it was. ‘That’s your problem, isn’t it? You’re fucking competing with me. You’ve always been like this. You’ve never been happy unless you’re beating me at something. So you’re better at sport, you got better GCSEs, better A-Levels … All your girlfriends have been better looking than anyone I could get, you get on better with Dad. You’ll get a better degree than me and … and you don’t want me to get married before you, do you? That’s it. That’s your problem; you hate the fact I’m going to get there first.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. That’s exactly what it is, and if you think about it for a moment you’ll realise what a dick you’re being.’
‘Steady on …’
‘Look, Pete, if it’s not that restaurant it’s another one, but I don’t fucking know any other restaurants in Rome. Not one. And if I pick a dive, I’m fucked. Don’t you see? Just for once, I’m asking you, my brother, to help me out, because I love my girlfriend and I don’t want to fuck this up. Fine. If you’re going to be a dick about it, be a dick, but if you won’t do it for me, how about you do it for Julia?’
Of course, Peter was too reasonable to hold out on me for long. Looking back, he was always pretty fair. Fraternal issues would spring up from time to time, but maybe he wasn’t as stubborn as me. And I don’t suppose I can blame a younger brother for using his elder brother as a yardstick for success. It’s just that once he got past me, he didn’t seem to stop. Success breeds confidence, I suppose, which breeds more success.
The plan had been to give Julia the trip to Rome as a Christmas present. We all gathered for Christmas at my parents’ house, minus Sarah, who was with her family in Gloucester. Julia and I arrived in the morning, and Mum produced the traditional Champagne and smoked salmon from the kitchen. Next we sat around the tree and opened cards, after that presents. For the first time Mum had written Julia and I a joint card, so I passed it to Julia to open, thinking no more about it. I didn’t immediately recognise the flush that had spread across her cheeks when she’d opened the card, but when she handed it to me and
I read it I looked up and it was as plain as the colour of her hair. The card had read: To Simon and his fiancée Julia.
‘Mum!’
‘Yes dear?’
‘Julia’s not my fiancée. We just live together.’
‘Really? But Peter said–’
‘Mum!’
So that more or less blew it. When Julia got my present she must have realised why I was taking her to Rome, it was bloody obvious then, so my bloody family had ballsed up my one great romantic gesture. I was so pissed off. I remember that feeling that I couldn’t do anything right, that every effort I made to be a functioning member of the human race was destined to end in humiliation or failure, and it hurt. Julia, though, was brilliant. She played it deadpan, knowing how disappointed I’d be that my surprise had been ruined, and tried to make it seem as if she had no idea. But she didn’t have to keep it up for long, because that night I got drunk and proposed anyway in front of the Christmas tree after my parents had gone to bed.
An idea strikes as I turn into the close, and an unbidden laugh escapes my lips. I have to stop walking as the implications of it dawn on me.
Most of my life I’ve felt disconnected and without direction. I need some ambition. Recently, my ambition has been to take a life, to feel powerful and smart and wise because I was convinced my plan couldn’t fail. But why not direct my energies towards creating a life? I know Julia wants to, but I’ve always protested that I haven’t been ready. But what’s been stopping me? Having a child would provide me with everything I’ve been missing: a reason for living, a hobby, a focus for my misplaced energies. It’s perfect, and my wife will love the idea. So I’ll buy her something mumsy, and surprise her with the idea on Christmas morning. And she’ll be delighted, and I’ll love the fact that I’ve made her happy. I clap my hands and take a deep breath. All this time I’ve been postponing the thing, and now I can’t wait.
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