A Perfect Husband

by Hilary Boyd

  Fish had picked Freddy up a decade ago at a casino in Cannes, while Freddy was networking at the Marché du Film – the business side of the more glamorous festival. Listening to the story of his life, Freddy had assumed his new friend would be cynical and world-weary, exhausted by the struggle to break free from such a wasted existence. But the opposite was true. Fish loved his life – or professed to, most convincingly – and was endearingly naive. He considered himself an excellent card player; he claimed to have become a peoplewatcher, an amateur philosopher, a mentor for younger gamblers, advising them when to quit, providing a shoulder to cry on when they ignored his advice. He balked strongly at Freddy’s suggestion, made early on in their friendship, that he find more gainful employment.

  ‘I don’t drink excessively, I don’t whore around, I’m kind to my old mother. I’ve chosen my path, same as you. Who’s to say yours is worthier than mine?’

  Who indeed? Freddy had thought at the time, an uncomfortable flash of memory reminding him of his own father and how far from ‘kind’ his feelings were for him.

  But now Freddy had stopped thinking about Fish, his gangster investor, even Lily and the money he’d forgotten to pay to Dillon’s wedding venue before he left for the airport. ‘Forgotten’ being the word he chose: it was less pejorative than any of the more truthful ones. He was too tired to think at all. He ordered a whisky-no-ice from the sharp-faced blonde behind the drinks cart, knocked it back, ordered another, then slid almost instantly into a dead, dreamless sleep.

  *

  ‘D’you gamble, Mr March?’

  Larry Hedstrom was not what Freddy had expected. An etiolated figure in beige chinos and a short-sleeved white shirt, probably Fish’s age, with skin that looked as if it had never seen the light of day and washed-out blond hair cut neatly like a banker’s, he spoke softly. They sat in his vast air-conditioned lounge in a sprawling bungalow next to an exclusive golf course to the west of the city. Through the plate-glass window, past the still, glinting surface of the blue-tiled pool, there were stunning views over the flat plain. The foreground was dotted with the improbably green grass and palm trees of the course, then miles of sandy scrub desert stretching towards the distant ring of the blue-grey Spring Mountains.

  It was very quiet, just the soft hiss of a sprinkler arching back and forth across the stubby grass outside the open doors, the sharp ki-ki-ki of a large black bird perched on the edge of a terracotta planter holding a prickly cactus, the sun burning everything else to silence.

  They settled on the chilly cream-leather sofas, coffee in white bone china cups on the long glass coffee table between them. There was little sign of habitation, not even a cushion, or a rug on the pale-wood floor. Magazines lay in a precisely overlapping line at the far end of the table – exclusively motor-racing glossies, as far as Freddy could see. A milk-glass bowl of potpourri sat alone on a slender chrome stand by the doors onto the terrace, while the lighting was entirely from discreet spots in the ceiling.

  Freddy shot a quick glance at Fish, sitting at the other end of the sofa, but his friend’s face was carefully noncommittal.

  ‘Call me Freddy . . . I’ve been known to have the odd flutter,’ Freddy said, hoping he was holding the right line between prude and renegade.

  Larry smiled. His pale eyes seemed to be appraising Freddy, but their expression was not unfriendly. He wondered what Fish had told Larry about him.

  ‘I’m in the programme,’ Larry said. ‘Have been for sixteen years and twenty-four days now.’ A brief smile flitted across his face as he spread his arms to indicate the near-empty room. ‘All this came to me when I looked my addiction in the face,’ Larry rolled his eyes heavenward, ‘and took hold of the Almighty’s open hand.’ His accent was soft and politely southern.

  Freddy looked at his friend. Is he joking? But Fish was innocently sipping his coffee, not looking his way. Obviously not, then. Maybe Fish had told the American that Freddy had a problem. ‘That’s a hard thing to do,’ he said to Larry. ‘I congratulate you.’

  The American’s face took on a slightly smug air. ‘Salvation is open to everyone, son.’

  The man’s a loony, Freddy thought. And don’t call me ‘son’. Fish has brought him in to save me. What a waste of fucking time. He’d have some sharp words for his friend later.

  ‘So tell me something about yourself, Freddy. Something personal so I can get a hold of who you are.’

  Freddy didn’t want to tell the man anything, certainly nothing personal. The room, for all its cool air and space, felt suffocating, the man opposite like some knowing preceptor who could see straight into Freddy’s damaged heart and was intent on setting him on the path to righteousness. But taking a deep breath, he played along. The last-minute flight had cost him too much of his precious cash and he had to get his money’s worth. So he told Larry about Lily and her children, the only good things in his life. And in the telling, he felt tears gathering behind his eyes.

  ‘Family keeps a man honest,’ Larry was saying, nodding approvingly. ‘Family and God.’ He paused, eyebrows raised a fraction, perhaps waiting for Freddy to declare his own love for the Almighty. But Freddy had been brought up in a godless house, where the idea of the Church had been rudely sneered at as a middle-class weakness, his mother’s Catholicism carefully kept private from his brutal father. He had been too young when she died to have thought to ask her if she secretly attended church behind Vinnie’s back, maybe went to confession on the way to the shops. He hoped for her sake that she had.

  ‘I’m not a religious man, I’m afraid,’ Freddy declared, not having any desire to take money from the man under false pretences.

  Larry smiled. ‘“Who through faith conquered kingdoms, enforced justice, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions.” Y’know that quote, Freddy? Hebrews eleven, thirty-three.’

  Freddy heard the squeak of Fish shifting on the sofa’s leather surface.

  ‘Hey, Larry, cut it out, will you? You make us all feel bad for being so ungodly.’

  Freddy was surprised by Fish’s directness.

  ‘I don’t mean to do that, son,’ Larry, ignoring Fish, replied to Freddy. ‘Seeing a soul in torment, it’s my duty to respond.’

  There was an awkward silence. Freddy wondered if the multi-millionaire considered Fish’s soul equally at risk, or just his own.

  ‘Tell him about the studio, Freddy,’ Fish encouraged.

  *

  ‘He liked you,’ Fish insisted later, as they sat in the pleasantly quiet, blissfully cool, dark-wood low-lit bar of the hotel in which Freddy was staying, sipping double gins and tonic.

  Freddy used the puce napkin to hold the cut-glass tumbler, slippery with condensation from the ice, the bubbles soft in his throat, as he waited for the kick of alcohol to work its magic. It had been a long, tense day.

  Larry had insisted they take a tour of the golf course, then ordered Kobe steak tartare for them all, which Freddy hated – he liked his meat thoroughly incinerated – followed by warm, sugary zeppole at his special table on the exclusive club’s shaded terrace. The waiters – mostly Mexican, Freddy decided – wore white gloves and spoke in low, respectful tones, anticipating Larry Hedstrom’s every whim and virtually tugging their forelocks at him.

  He must be bloody rolling, he had thought, if he attracts this level of fawning in a club only open to multi-millionaires.

  ‘Rubbish. He pitied me, thought I was “a soul in torment”.’ Freddy sighed. The armchair was so comfortable he wanted to fall asleep that instant as the jetlag kicked in.

  ‘Well, he got that right. But he’d never have bothered with lunch and the tour if he hadn’t liked you.’

  ‘That was just showing off. And why do very rich people always order for you? Like being broke prevents you understanding a menu.’ He pulled a face. ‘Raw meat makes me retch.’

  Fish shook his head slowly.
‘The guy treats you to literally the most expensive dish on the planet and you’re insulted?’

  Which was almost true. Freddy had certainly felt belittled, as if his character had somehow come up short in the meeting with Hedstrom. ‘You were very personal with him,’ he said, a note of accusation in his voice he didn’t bother to check. ‘Like you knew him way better than you let on.’

  ‘Used to.’ Fish was not offended; it was hard to offend Fish. ‘We were in high school together, Inglewood, but I haven’t seen him since, not till he pitched up at this New York gallery opening. Then our paths have crossed the odd time I’m in Vegas. Never liked him at school either. He was kinda creepy even as a kid. Just thought he might be useful to you.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for that.’ Freddy realized he was being ungrateful. ‘Sorry, I do appreciate your help.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You said he loved show business . . . didn’t seem the type to approve of such frivolity.’

  Fish nodded, whether in agreement about Larry loving show business or not approving of it, Freddy couldn’t tell.

  ‘What’ll you do if he doesn’t come through?’

  ‘Shoot myself, I suppose.’

  Fish stared at him, his dark eyes beady, as if he wasn’t entirely sure Freddy was joking. Freddy wasn’t either. ‘You could always allow him to save you,’ Fish suggested, his half-smile indicating he thought this rather a cunning plan. ‘Claim a moment of epiphany and credit Larry with it. His ego wouldn’t be able to resist.’

  ‘Who knows? I might even be saved,’ Freddy said morosely.

  Fish pulled himself to his feet. ‘Better get some drinks in before that happens. Salvation won’t come with a double gin.’

  *

  For the first time since he’d got off the plane, Freddy began to relax. It was gone three in the morning, and Fish had long since retired to the one-bedroom apartment he owned in a high-rise near the south end of the Strip. The roulette table was still crowded though: people did not come to Vegas to sleep. They were mostly middle-aged American tourists except for a young Japanese couple – badly dressed and clearly not regular gamblers from their childish shrieks of mock-despair as they lost.

  Freddy felt lightheaded and slightly mad. It was Vegas. Cruel desert sun and the natural beauty of Mount Charleston versus gaudy fantasy constructions depicting real places like the Eiffel Tower; piped music even outside on the Strip itself; retail to satisfy even the most extreme shopaholics; shows to die for. Then the noisy, clanging, over-lit dens of slot machines, the quieter, cooler, more seductive aura of the blackjack and roulette tables. A tawdry unreality. But this city-plonked-on-the-sand required – almost compelled – its visitors to be hedonistic, irresponsible, wild.

  He had barely slept and downed too many gins with Fish, who seemed to have an infinite capacity, never appearing drunk. Hedstrom’s perspicacity about his troubled soul had disturbed him in ways he didn’t really understand. Freddy did not believe in God, but he was superstitious, like any gambler. Was he worried the guy would put a hex on him, make him lose so badly that he had no option but to turn to God? A ridiculous notion, but he felt uncharacteristically vulnerable. He’d been cap in hand to investors for various projects many times, put up with all sorts of rich-man capricious bullshit to get what he wanted, but this time felt different. It was as if Larry could see right through him, as if he were holding a mirror up, insisting Freddy gaze at his soul. And Freddy had no desire whatsoever to do that.

  Casinos the world over are basically all the same, he thought, as he waited for the croupiers’ slick shift change. The tables, the room, the clients, the casino staff around him could equally have been situated in London or Kuala Lumpur. Even the virtual-roulette environment, which Freddy had tried in the past and rejected – no atmosphere, just hard-core, anonymous online betting with a facility that scared even him – unimaginatively mimicked the real-life establishments.

  ‘Place your bets.’ The new croupier’s voice was fresh and enthusiastically American. But after all the weeks of fear, the constant pressure stabbing like a sharp pain through his body, Freddy knew he no longer had the energy to care what happened. A sudden restlessness, an unprecedented waft of boredom overcame him as he mechanically pushed his chips to rest straight up on 32 and 18, a split on 14 and 17 and a colour bet on red – which had only a one to one payout, but obviously a better chance of success.

  But the anticipation that always drove him into the zone as the croupier spun the wheel and dropped the ball was uniquely absent tonight. No buzz, no thrill at all. He watched listlessly as the ball came to rest on 22 black. He knew he had come to put a lot of reliance on the high. It bolstered him, protected him, took away the need to think. But all he could do now was think, as if Hedstrom had unlocked a carefully bolted door, behind which were such painful memories that Freddy felt agonizing tears pricking behind his eyes. He just wanted to lay his head down on the green baize and sleep, never wake up.

  Chapter 8

  Lily hugged Sara close, enjoying the rare sighting of her daughter. She thought she looked unusually well. Tall and athletic like her brother, she frequently appeared physically worn down by her life as a medical student – currently in her sixth year of training and working as an F2 (Foundation Year 2) at Kingston Hospital. Mentally she clearly thrived on the pressure, but the gruelling hours and snatched ready-meals, lack of sleep and proper time off did not allow for the cycling, climbing and swimming she loved.

  A good-looking girl, with an open face and generous mouth, Sara’s green knitted hat was pulled down at a comical angle over her wild, dark-brown curls. Lily saw a spark in her blue eyes today, a glow to her pale cheeks that made her wonder. Sara was the more outgoing and gregarious of the twins, and had, in Lily and Garret’s opinion, seemed like an older sister to Dillon, even though she had been born second.

  They set off briskly along the Broadwalk, a wide ribbon of path that runs north–south across Kensington Gardens, towards the Round Pond. It was cold, a vicious March wind sending the already low temperature plummeting. Lily brought her dusty-pink pashmina up around her face, thrust her gloved hands into the pockets of her black hooded parka.

  ‘It’s bloody freezing,’ she complained. ‘Are you sure you want to walk?’

  But Sara gave a small leap of exuberance, held her arms out to the wind, closed her eyes like a child. ‘This is great. I’m cooped up in that hospital twenty-four/seven – I feel as if I never see the light of day any more.’

  Lily smiled at seeing her so happy. Even as a child Sara was focused and independent, had her own agenda. But she and Lily were close, always on the same page when it came to values. They linked arms, striding out under the watery spring sunshine towards the pond.

  Once there they chose a bench, old and rickety, with a curved wrought-iron frame, the wood slats blistered and grey from years of exposure. Sitting close, their backs to the wind, they watched the ducks and geese waddle about the newly surfaced area beside the water, being fed by a small child let loose from her buggy. Her little hand was now held out for more chunks of bread, but the request was being ignored by the bored foreign au pair texting on her phone.

  Lily waited for her daughter to speak. She knew she had something to tell her: she could feel the repressed energy in the small talk they’d exchanged on the short walk over the hill. Have she and Stan finally set a wedding date? she wondered.

  But Sara said nothing, just sat as if she were in a world of her own, wrapped in her navy Uniqlo down jacket, hands wedged under her thighs, one brown-booted foot absently kicking the metal leg of the bench.

  ‘How’s Stan?’ Lily asked eventually.

  The silence was electric now, and suddenly Lily knew what Sara was going to say before she said it.

  ‘Mum . . . Mum, I’ve met this guy . . .’ She shot her a guilty look, but couldn’t help a small smile escaping at the same time.

  ‘Sara!�
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  ‘I know, I know . . .’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Sara’s face spread into a broad, if slightly apologetic, grin. ‘He’s amazing, Mum. He’s American, his name’s Ted and he’s an anaesthetist at Kingston. And, well, we just . . . It was—’

  ‘Wait. You’re telling me you’re cheating on Stan?’

  Her daughter nodded. Then her expression turned to one of genuine anguish. ‘I don’t know what to do. I love Stan, but Ted . . . Ted is something else.’

  Shocked by what she was hearing, Lily asked, ‘Does Stan know?’

  Sara screwed her face up exactly as she had as a child. ‘No.’

  Lily was dismayed. She loved Stan too. He’d been little more than a gangly, clever teenager when she’d first met him – a student in the same year as her daughter at Nottingham Medical School.

  ‘Isn’t this just a sex thing? A fling? You’ve been with Stan since you were kids.’

  Sara sat, head bent, hands twisting. ‘I don’t know, Mum. I hardly see him these days. He’s at Guy’s, I’m in Kingston. We’re almost never at home at the same time.’

  Lily didn’t reply at once. She’d always thought of Stan as a young Garret. He and Sara were particularly well suited to each other in her opinion – both ambitious, both driven, both wanting to save the world.

  ‘Don’t ruin what you have with Stan,’ she begged Sara, moving round on the bench until she was face to face with her daughter, who was doing everything possible to avoid her eye. ‘Have a fling if you must. But please, please, don’t break up with Stan. If you do, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.’

  Her daughter looked stricken. ‘Don’t say that, Mum!’

  ‘Well, it’s true. You and Stan are meant for each other.’ Lily didn’t know why she felt so angry. It was Sara’s life, but she felt as if her daughter were rejecting her own father and all he’d stood for by dumping Stan. The thought was intensely painful.