A Perfect Husband

by Hilary Boyd

  When Helen got home from work, she immediately gave her a brief, uncharacteristic hug. ‘That’s brilliant, Lily, well done.’

  ‘It will be brilliant,’ she answered, ‘if I can type the bloody things up in time. He wants them back by Friday.’

  ‘Don’t be negative. It’s only Wednesday. How many are there?’

  Lily looked in the bag. ‘Four.’

  ‘Only four?’ Helen looked disappointed as she turned away to find the kettle and fill it with water.

  ‘How long does it take to transcribe an hour of talking, do you think?’ Lily asked. ‘If you can type normally.’

  Helen shrugged. ‘How long is a piece of string? I have no idea . . . given that people mumble and talk too quickly so you have to go back and forth . . . Maybe two hours?’

  Lily very much doubted it would take her only two hours.

  ‘Wasn’t that lucky, me spotting his ad on the board? He must have just put it there, or he’d have been inundated with students after the job and you wouldn’t have got a look-in.’ Helen turned to Lily, leaning her bottom against the worktop as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘And you liked him?’

  ‘I did. He was . . . kind. Sort of odd-looking, but he had a nice smile. I thought he seemed a bit sad.’

  Her sister laughed. ‘As long as he pays you, he can be as miserable as he likes.’

  Chapter 30

  Freddy had stopped swimming in the open-air pool. It was late spring and the sea had warmed up just enough. He would walk down to the water from his grandmother’s flat, past the strange cat grotto perched on a rocky knoll – decorated with faded soft toys and bowls of water set out for the strays – at about six every morning. The air was cool then and he would swim off the rocks in the gap between one seafront hotel and another. The sea was still cold, no question, but in his currently Spartan phase Freddy enjoyed the macho glow of stoicism. Then he would reward himself with coffee and a couple of little pastizzi – flaky pastries filled with ricotta and mashed peas – in a café on the corner of his street.

  While he ate, he checked his emails on his laptop with the café Wi-Fi – there was no connection in the flat. He had to steel himself every morning to face the ongoing mess that constituted his financial affairs. There was invariably a request from James, his solicitor, something from the Official Receiver’s office about missing documents or queries about the equipment in the studios, finer points in contracts and statements, invoices to be cleared up.

  This particular morning, nearly six weeks since the terrible moment when his world had crashed about him, Freddy was taking stock. It seemed entirely possible to him, as he sat in the warm sun – so far from anyone he knew, his problems muted by distance – that he could stay in Malta for ever. He might drift through his life with a succession of middle-aged women, like Shirley, prepared to bankroll him. He could be wined and dined, sit by swanky pools to work on his tan, visit the odd historic monument or concert . . . even rescue wounded birds. All in exchange for companionship, for his skills as a professional walker. He knew how to charm people; he wasn’t out of place with the rich and famous. Just a gigolo, he said to himself, and even that thought didn’t upset him as it should, as long as sex didn’t enter the equation.

  Maybe it was the sun that was making him lazy, or the absolute dread of ever facing Lily and her children again, or the nightmare of setting up a whole new career with his reputation in tatters, but the idea didn’t seem such a bad one. Lethargy was new to Freddy: he’d been a lifelong enthusiast and workaholic. These days, though, he felt almost unable to do anything but wander from his bed to the sea, from the sea to the café, from the café to Shirley’s condo, from her condo to a local eaterie to make the tricky decision of whether to have crab or lobster for lunch. The prospect of anything more strenuous, anything that required his brain to function, his emotions to be engaged, seemed overwhelming.

  Lily, Lily, Lily. He repeated her name silently to himself. Where was she? How was she coping? He imagined her back working in Prem’s shop, living in Prem and Anthony’s comfortable Fulham house. He’d promised her it would be for a few months, their separation, but it was already six weeks and he was nowhere. And despite her assertion that she loved him, she probably wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole now – a bankrupt without even a bank account to his name, or the ability to rent a flat, get a mortgage or run a company. The bankruptcy sites even informed him he was no longer eligible to be a postman, which he found almost insulting. He couldn’t see himself as one, but still . . .

  His phone rang and he answered it with a small sigh, sure, at this time of the morning, it would be James with another tiresome query.

  ‘How’s it going, you sad bastard?’ Max sounded pleased with himself. ‘Thought you’d fuck off and not tell your only friend, did you? Well, I’ve let you stew in your own juice long enough.’

  Freddy laughed. He felt unreasonably glad to hear Max’s voice. ‘Hey, how are you?’

  ‘Been a bit of a drama with Julie’s mum, heart stuff, but she’s on the mend now.’ He chuckled. ‘I had to threaten that James guy so he’d give me your number.’

  ‘Threaten him with what?’

  ‘I told him I knew all sorts of dodgy stuff about you I’d divulge to the authorities pronto unless he coughed up.’

  ‘He must have been terrified.’

  His friend laughed again. ‘So what the fuck are you doing, Freddy? Is Lily with you? When are you coming home?’

  Freddy didn’t know where to start. Eventually he mumbled out the details of his life for the last few weeks, trying to detach himself, as he spoke, from the loser about whom he spoke.

  ‘Sounds fucking peachy. All that sea and sunshine. Lucky bugger. Maybe I should go bankrupt.’

  Freddy felt a flare of anger in his gut. ‘It’s about as far from “peachy” as you can get, Max. I’m stranded here. Lily and I have split up. I don’t have a job. I have to deal with financial crap all day long. It’s shit, despite the bloody sea and sunshine.’ He knew he sounded like a whining child, but the implication that he was enjoying himself stung.

  But Max didn’t do self-pity. ‘So what’s the plan? You going to hide out in your grandma’s flat for ever?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t have a sodding clue what I’m going to do, okay? I just told you, I’m basically fucked.’

  His friend was silent. Then: ‘Are you gambling?’ Max’s voice sounded reluctant, as if he were steeling himself for Freddy’s response.

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’ Freddy felt a surge of pride that he was able to answer with the truth for once.

  And Max must have heard it. ‘Great. That’s great, Freddy.’

  ‘Maybe. But it doesn’t solve a single problem.’

  ‘It doesn’t create any new ones at least,’ his friend replied, then paused and Freddy heard him talking to someone in the background, saying he’d be with him in a minute. ‘Listen, now I’ve got your number, let’s keep in touch. You’ll have to come back soon, mate. Who the fuck can I go to the American Bar with?’

  Freddy ordered another black coffee from the bad-­tempered Italian waitress who often served him and tried to think. Max’s call had brought back into sharp focus everything he had left behind. All very well for him to say come home, he thought, not without a bitterness he knew was unjustified, but how the hell does he think I’m going to do that?

  *

  ‘Oh, come on, hon.’ Shirley leaned towards him, flashing her most beguiling smile. ‘You don’t need money. I’ve got enough for us both. It’ll be so much fun.’

  They were sitting on the terrace of her apartment, each with a large gin and tonic, watching the sun go down over the sea on the beautiful May evening. Freddy had sidestepped her earlier invitation to lunch. Since speaking to Max, he’d felt as if Shirley were his guilty secret. Real l
ife? He didn’t know how to do that any more.

  ‘I’m not taking your money, Shirley. No way.’

  Shirley was dressed in a strange black and yellow silk tunic with nautical rope print – it had probably cost a fortune and had been bought in one of the luxury boutiques on the island – and a pair of loose black trousers. Her tanned, perfectly manicured feet were bare, her ankles crossed as she lay back on the cream lounger. She must have been drinking before Freddy arrived, because she was already behaving in a giggly, girly fashion that didn’t bode well for the evening.

  The American pulled a pouty face at Freddy’s refusal. ‘Don’t be a spoilsport, Freddy. I’ve made a reservation for dinner anyway, and the food is fabulous there. Then you can watch me gamble if you won’t do it yourself. How about it?’

  Freddy didn’t have much choice, but he felt his whole body twitch at the thought of being close to a roulette table again. This will be the test, he told himself, suddenly almost relishing the challenge.

  *

  The casino – an old converted palace that had been used as a summer residence by some rich Maltese family in the past – perched at the end of a rocky promontory ten minutes’ walk north of the marina complex. It was a stunning, neoclassical building in limestone, with a covered terrace stretching round the outside punctuated by curved arches and slim columns. Freddy thought it more like a temple than a gambling joint. He had seen the place often before, but never allowed himself inside. Tonight it glowed a warm, seductive yellow, the word ‘CASINO’ shimmering on the roof, the light pouring from the interior brilliant against the absolute darkness of the surrounding sea.

  There was a brisk wind as they strolled along the walkway, past still, silent swimming-pools and up the curved steps onto the terrace for dinner. Shirley had brought a black cashmere wrap, which she drew round her shoulders as they were seated by the maître d’ on padded wrought-iron chairs at a white-clothed table.

  ‘Will you just look at that,’ Shirley said, waving her hand towards the view across the sea, lights twinkling along the ribbon of coast as far as the eye could see. ‘Isn’t it magic?’

  Freddy, craning round in his seat, agreed that it was. But he couldn’t help feeling anxious. He would not gamble. He could not gamble. But just passing through the huge wooden and glass double doors of the casino as they made their way to the restaurant had been enough to unsettle him.

  ‘Chase hated gambling. He used to say it was the best way to get nothing from something,’ Shirley was saying.

  Freddy laughed dutifully. He had decided Chase was a smug fuck, the sort of man he’d go out of his way to avoid. But maybe that was only because Shirley was so keen on quoting him. Things like ‘If life gives you lemons, make lemonade’, and ‘Don’t go through life, grow through life’. Although the framed photograph on Shirley’s coffee table of Chase Solaris was harmless enough: it showed a bluff, red-faced man standing on the deck of a large yacht, arms folded across his yellow life vest, a contented grin on his face.

  ‘Have you had to step up to the plate since Chase died? Sort of learn to do all the stuff he did before?’ Freddy asked when they were well into the second bottle of Côtes du Rhone.

  Shirley looked baffled. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

  ‘Traditional man things? Perhaps you used to rely on Chase to book restaurants, for instance, deal with money. If he did that, now you have to.’

  Her face softened, ‘Oh, I see. Well, yes, I guess I have. Chase spoiled me, Freddy. Never let me lift a finger. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he used to say.’ Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘But I find I’m good at all those things too. He’d have been proud of me.’

  Freddy patted her hand across the table. He’d asked because he was feeling lost, missing so much that Lily provided. But for him it was the intangibles: her quiet common sense, her lack of pretension, an ability to make sense of his world. Things he could never provide for himself in a million years.

  ‘Did she leave you because you lost your money, hon?’ Shirley asked, holding his hand rather too tightly.

  Freddy shook his head. It felt disloyal even talking about Lily with this woman. What the fuck am I doing here anyway?

  ‘Come on.’ She threw her napkin on the table and waved at a passing waiter. ‘Let’s go gamble our worries away.’ She gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘Chase wasn’t right about everything.’

  And Freddy made no effort to resist.

  *

  He liked the room: high-ceilinged, the square space was not as big as he’d imagined from the outside; the décor seemed fresh, the rust and gold carpet new. It had a calm atmosphere on this Monday night – no crowds – as he and Shirley pulled themselves up on the black and chrome chairs beside the roulette table.

  This is not gambling, Freddy told himself. It’s not my money, not my show. It was as if Shirley were a Trojan horse, Freddy secreted inside, waiting to explode into the room, to cause mayhem. But as he sat there waiting for the hit, waiting for his old self to surface, he realized there were no fireworks. He was just playing by proxy, the American passing him a pile of chips, both of them discussing where they should be placed, chatting and laughing together as if this were the most mundane pursuit in the world. In his head, during these weeks of abstinence, he had imagined the old familiar feeling of electrification, the palpitations, the few blissful seconds of zoning out. He was both relieved and disappointed it was absent.

  Shirley turned out to be a surprisingly reckless player and had won, then lost a fair sum over the hour and a half they sat at the table. But unlike Freddy and his ilk, she knew when to call it a day.

  ‘Those are your winnings,’ she said, pushing the chips back towards him. She was ready to cash in what remained of her pile, and he had added his own to hers.

  ‘No. Your money,’ he said, sliding them across the baize again.

  She laughed. ‘Don’t argue, Freddy, because, believe me, I’ll win.’ Her normally breezy delivery suddenly had a touch of metal, backed up by a fierce look from her blue eyes.

  What the hell? he thought. He needed the money, so he gave in, thanking her gracefully.

  As they walked away from the casino, she linked arms with him. ‘What a fabulous evening. Come back for a nightcap?’ she asked, looking up at him.

  Freddy was tired and discombobulated from the casino experience. He just wanted to fall asleep and forget. But Shirley had paid for everything as usual, even given him money. How churlish it would be to refuse. This is what it feels like to be a kept man, he thought sourly. ‘Love to,’ he found himself saying. He had to walk her home anyway. What harm could come from a quick nightcap? It wasn’t as if either of them had anything to get up for in the morning.

  Chapter 31

  Lily was on her way to the narrowboat with the second batch of Seth Kramer’s interviews. It was a warm, misty spring morning where the natural world seemed to be quietly alive: silky pink and white apple blossoms, the delicate fairy green of the ancient willow by the bridge, the scent of wild garlic on the breeze, the vibrant yellow of cowslips and purple-blue of bluebells.

  She had typed up fifteen tapes in the week since delivering the first batch, sitting at the table with her laptop in the quiet kitchen. It was becoming easier, although some of the interviewees spoke too fast, others mumbled and a few banged on for both sides of the tape. Occasionally she found herself becoming fascinated by what the voice was saying, and forgot to type. She also made a horrible number of typos that she spent hours picking through and correcting. But the psychoanalyst had seemed happy with the work, barely glancing at the printed sheets before handing over another clutch of tapes.

  As she paused on the bridge to take in the beautiful day, her phone rang. Sara. It was at least a week since she’d talked to her daughter, and Lily answered with pleasure.

  But Sara’s voice was frosty. ‘Hi, M
um. Where are you?’

  ‘On Aristotle Bridge, going to see Dr Kramer. What’s the matter, darling?’

  There was a long pause. ‘I’ve split up with Stan.’

  ‘Oh, God. I’m sorry. How did he react?’

  ‘He was angry,’ her daughter said, ‘but he said he knew, said he’d known for weeks.’ A pause. ‘He said you’d told him, Mum.’

  Lily cringed silently. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘He says you did. He says you met for lunch and told him I was having an affair.’ Lily could hear the tears in her daughter’s words, but before she had a chance to speak, Sara went on. ‘How could you go behind my back like that, Mum? Why on earth didn’t you say you’d seen him?’

  Lily took a deep breath. ‘Look, I know I shouldn’t have met up with him without telling you, darling, and I’m really sorry. But he was so desperate, he literally begged me to see him, and begged me not to say we’d met. And then . . . well, I suppose he knew when I wouldn’t answer his questions properly that I was hiding something.’ She stopped, wondering if her babbling was getting through to her daughter. ‘But I absolutely swear I didn’t tell him about Ted.’

  Silence. A sniff. Lily held her breath.

  ‘I knew he was lying.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have seen him without telling you. It’s been on my conscience ever since. But I wasn’t sure this thing with Ted . . .’

  There was another silence, then a long sigh at the other end of the phone.

  ‘No, listen, this is all my fault, Mum. I ought to have told him months ago. It’s put everyone in a shit position – all my friends were screaming at me to sort it out. But I love Stan. It was so hard.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Lily paused. ‘So you and Ted . . . it’s serious?’

  Another sigh. ‘He’s wonderful, Mum. I love him so much. I can’t wait for you to meet him.’ A pause. ‘You won’t be off with him, will you, because of Stan? It’s not Ted’s fault.’

  ‘No, of course not. I look forward to meeting him,’ Lily said, although she wasn’t sure she did. She couldn’t imagine Sara with anyone but Stan.