A Perfect Husband

by Hilary Boyd

  ‘How much did you give him?’ he asked.

  Lily’s face was flushed with embarrassment. ‘Forty. I—’

  ‘How could you?’ Helen interrupted her. ‘How could you interfere like this?’ A sudden fury took hold of her and she stood up, stamping round the table till she was standing over her sister. ‘Have you any idea what you’ve done? Kit is a drug addict. Of course he’s convincing. He’s clever, always was, but he doesn’t know how to tell the truth any more. All he knows is that he needs his next fix. And you’ve just given it to him on a plate. You might as well have filled the syringe and injected it into his bloody vein.’

  She could feel tears of rage in her eyes and swallowed hard.

  ‘Do you understand? Do you, Lily? That money could be killing him right now.’

  ‘Helen . . .’ David’s voice was soft, trying to calm her, but she wouldn’t be calmed.

  ‘It’s not just about the money. You’ve let him think he can come back here now, invade our home. Let him think you’ll give him what he wants.’ She took in a sharp breath as a thought occurred to her. ‘Did you let him in? Although he’s quite capable of breaking in if he thought there’d be anything to steal.’ Something inside her collapsed and she felt suddenly too tired to be angry. She backed away from her sister, went to sit down again. ‘We never leave money around now. All our valuables are locked away in the attic. Kit knows that. I thought he’d given up trying.’

  She caught Lily’s glance at her husband and saw David’s almost warning look in return.

  ‘What?’ she demanded. ‘What’s going on?’

  David came and sat down with them, still holding the tea towel. ‘I gave him a key, Helen.’

  ‘What? You did what?’

  ‘I know what we agreed, but I was scared when he wasn’t in the flat the other week and the place was locked up. What would happen if he couldn’t stay there any longer? Where would he go?’

  Helen wanted to smack her husband for his misplaced compassion. They were on opposite sides of a hellish fence: David trying to save Kit with kindness, Helen believing in tough love. ‘He’d go where all good drug addicts eventually go: the gutter,’ Helen snapped. ‘And maybe, just maybe, being there will finally bring him to his senses.’

  Lily and David were staring at her, but she couldn’t tell if it was disgust on their faces or pity.

  ‘I should have told you,’ David said. ‘I’m sorry. But I knew you’d be furious and I didn’t think he’d use the key.’

  ‘Ha. No, of course he’s not going to use a key that lets him into a house with all sorts of possibilities for obtaining money for a fix. He’d never do that.’ Her sarcasm soothed her, made her feel almost powerful in a situation over which she had absolutely no control. She glared at her husband. ‘I should have warned you, Lily, but I didn’t realize he had a key, did I?’

  ‘I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,’ Lily said.

  Helen saw that her contrition was genuine. But it didn’t help. It felt like a conspiracy all of a sudden. Lily here when she shouldn’t be, interfering, siding with David, perhaps even in cahoots with him about how to treat their son. And judging her for her lack of compassion. ‘You think I’m just letting him go to hell, don’t you?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t think that.’ Her sister sighed. ‘Listen, I got it wrong. I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen Kit in that state before. I was genuinely shocked. He was skin and bone—’

  ‘The trouble with you is you’re so naive, Lily,’ Helen interrupted, not wanting to hear any more details of her son’s condition. She herself had not seen Kit for over a year and the guilt gnawed. ‘This Freddy business. If you’d been a bit more on the ball, hadn’t had your head in the clouds, assuming the best of everyone, you wouldn’t be in the situation you’re in today. Freddy’s as much of an addict as Kit, for God’s sake. It’s just you can’t see the marks on his skin.’

  She knew she was being spiteful, and saw the hurt registering on her sister’s face with some satisfaction. Later she would feel mean, but right now it was good to make someone else suffer a version of the distress she experienced on a daily basis whenever she thought of her son.

  ‘Helen,’ David was frowning at her, ‘that’s unfair.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is it really? Surely if Lily had spotted Freddy’s habit sooner, she could have protected her money. And got him some help.’ She wouldn’t look at her sister.

  ‘It doesn’t always work out that way though, does it?’ David said, and she knew he was referring to the endless ‘help’ they had offered their son. The regular visits with Kit to see their kind old GP, which had got them nowhere. The three sessions in rehab at huge expense, Kit relapsing each time within weeks of coming out. The rows, promises, lies, hope . . . None of it had done the slightest good in addressing their son’s addiction.

  ‘No,’ Helen said wearily. ‘No, I suppose it doesn’t.’ She met Lily’s eye. ‘Sorry.’

  Later, when she was lying in bed in the darkness, wound up to the hilt with the evening’s discussion, adrenalin defying her need to sleep, she said to David, ‘I want you to get the key off Kit the next time you see him. Promise?’

  David, whose breathing told her he was almost asleep, said, ‘I’ll try.’

  Helen sat up. ‘No, that’s not good enough. You must get it or I’ll have to change the locks. I can’t have our home wide open to a bunch of drug addicts. Because it’s not just Kit, is it? It’s anyone he might be hanging out with at the time. We’ll come home one day and find the whole place has been cleaned out.’

  It was easier to focus on the practical aspect of the key, of lost possessions, than on the state of their son. There was no more discussion to be had on that subject anyway. She and David had talked – cried – themselves to a standstill about him. And it hadn’t changed a thing.

  ‘Maybe we should get new locks anyway,’ she heard her husband say softly. And she knew then that he was as freaked out by Kit’s appearance as she had been. Freaked out by the thought of their son standing in the kitchen in the family home, in his home, where he had spent his entire childhood.

  Chapter 33

  It was a Saturday in early June as Freddy once again made his way towards the Portomaso complex and Shirley’s apartment. He and Shirley had spent the previous day in the capital, Valletta. She had insisted they take a dgħajsa across the Grand Harbour and visit the war museum in Vittoriosa. Do the tour. Freddy had not objected. It made a change from the long afternoons on hot restaurant terraces, when both became stultified with rich food and too much wine. A strange form of hell for Freddy, one that anyone else would consider a most enviable existence, but which he saw as a frustrating lacuna in his life that would soon – God willing – be over.

  He and Shirley tended to keep their conversation general, talking about all things Maltese: the food, new hotel developments, wines, government, local gangsters and tourist sights. Or American politics: Shirley was fiercely Republican but loathed both main contenders for the following year’s presidential election alike. They had no friends in common to gossip about – in fact Freddy had no friends at all except for Shirley, unless you counted the various bar and café staff he chatted to on a daily basis. They had no work or family to distract them. The days were very long, or so it seemed to Freddy.

  But when they were on the traditional water taxi, the chatty Maltese boatman rowing them across the harbour in the sunshine, tanned forehead beading with sweat, began telling them at length about his five children and sick mother, about how hard it was to make ends meet. A transparent attempt, thought Freddy cynically, to extort a larger tip.

  ‘You have big family?’ the boatman asked.

  Shirley had smiled benignly as she replied from beneath her broad-brimmed straw hat, ‘Oh, yes. We have four children and eleven grandchildren.’

  The boatman seemed thril
led with this news, his face breaking into a huge grin.

  ‘Ah, you are very blessed, Sinjura.’

  ‘We are indeed,’ Shirley said, taking Freddy’s hand as they sat on the narrow wooden bench and gazing lovingly into his face.

  Freddy found the smile frozen on his lips. It was a joke, he got that, but the look Shirley gave him brought him up short.

  The boatman handed them out, Shirley having obliged with a very generous tip that brought blessings raining down upon her head long after they’d walked away along the quay. Neither spoke for a while, just took in the beautiful butter-coloured stone of the ancient, elegant buildings of the Grand Harbour glowing in the sunlight.

  ‘So how do you like being a grandfather of eleven?’ Shirley said eventually, with a teasing purse of her lips. But the look she gave him implied she wasn’t sure if she’d offended him.

  Freddy laughed it off. ‘I always think it odd that it’s seen as such an achievement to have lots of children who subsequently have lots more.’

  ‘Did you never want any yourself?’ she asked, her expression suddenly serious. They had reached the small entrance to the museum above the harbour, but they hesitated on the step.

  Freddy hated this question, so often asked. He couldn’t tell people the real answer. He never had, not even Lily. But the very thought of having a child in his care filled him with dread. Suppose the brutal instincts of his father manifested themselves in him? A malign genetic inheritance that made him subconsciously ape his father’s sadism. Wasn’t it a fact that often the abused abuse, even without meaning to?

  Uninvited images, accompanied by the old blood-draining fear, invaded his thoughts. Coming home from school and seeing the furniture in the sitting room above the pub pushed ominously to the side, a wooden chair placed in the centre, knowing what was to come. He never had any idea what he’d done to deserve punishment, but it was pointless to ask, because the more he asked, the heavier the beating. Freddy’s main goal, after a couple of terrible humiliations, was not to wet himself. It helped, somehow, to focus on this, to shut his young body down, screw it tight until his father had had his pleasure.

  There had never been a single second in his life when he could imagine himself needing – because it did seem like a need his father had – to do this to a child, a person, even an animal. But he wasn’t going to put any child’s safety at risk, just in case he was wrong. That was why Lily’s family was so perfect. His past relationships with women had foundered on his unshakeable resolve never to have children. But with Lily, he could be a stepfather to two adults over whom he had absolutely no control.

  At the thought of Dillon, his heart contracted. He’d blown that relationship now. Even if Lily decided to trust him again, Dillon – and therefore Sara – certainly would not. And this might be the straw that broke the camel’s back when it came to them getting back together. No mother wanted to choose between her children and the man she loved.

  ‘I think I’d be a hopeless father,’ he’d said to Shirley. ‘Don’t have the patience.’

  And they both laughed and left it at that.

  The dusty, drab militaria in the museum depressed Freddy and left him cold. The underground shelter – raked stone, chilly, dark, confined, airless – made him want to scrabble for breath. But Shirley was lapping it up, chatting for hours with the young Maltese student from whom they bought their tickets. Freddy’s mood remained uneasy. He never voluntarily remembered: it was only if his thoughts were triggered, as had happened earlier, that the images escaped the locked box of childhood. But on the rare occasions when they did, it always took him a while to recover, to fully assimilate the fact in his adult brain that the room, the chair, the smell of the old wooden seat . . . that first hot slice of pain and the agonizing wait for the second – and, of course, his father – no longer existed for him.

  *

  Later, Shirley insisted on making him supper. Freddy was relieved not to have to go out again. How he missed those evenings with Lily when he had made her a spicy fish soup or a rich bolognese, then sat in their elegant white kitchen with the view over London, laughed together about the day, listened to blues – maybe Robert Johnson or Howlin’ Wolf – on his Bose and sipped a delicious red. Their life had been magic. He gave a sigh of disappointment, as he drank his second gin and tonic, that Shirley was not his wife.

  Shirley, by her own admission, was not a great cook. The chicken breast was overdone, the olive oil and rosemary potatoes undercooked, the salad dressing sharp with too much vinegar. But she’d prepared it with care and Freddy wasn’t complaining one bit.

  ‘There’s going to be a storm,’ Shirley said, looking towards the windows as they cleared away the dishes.

  The night sky was rumbling ominously, a cold wind blowing through the still-open doors onto the balcony. Shirley lit two fat pink candles on the coffee table and brought through a tray upon which stood a pot of fresh mint tea, pale-green china cups and saucers, two small brandy balloons and a box of champagne truffles she said she’d got in Duty Free the last time she’d flown.

  It felt odd sitting inside on the pale, squashy sofas. Normally they sailed through to the balcony and the loungers, even at night. Freddy gazed at the numerous photos of Chase dotted about the room and had the uneasy sense that Shirley’s husband was watching him. I should slow down, he told himself, glancing at his drink. But what had he got to lose? There was no one to care whether he lived or died except this American widow, with her honeycomb hair and bold gold jewellery.

  Shirley sat down next to him, brandy glass cradled in her palms, a faraway look in her eye. ‘This is what I thought I’d be doing with dear Chase,’ she said softly.

  There seemed nothing to say to this, so Freddy just gave her a sympathetic glance. The storm was gathering force outside, the rain now pounding on the tiles of the balcony. ‘I’d better close the windows,’ he said, getting up.

  He stood for a moment in the blast of wind and rain, hands clutching the glass doors, assailed by a feeling of such dull emptiness that it elicited a groan. Closing them quickly, he took a steadying breath before turning back to Shirley. ‘Quite a night.’

  She raised her eyebrows, patting the cushion beside her. ‘Hey, what’s the matter? You look stricken.’

  He tried to laugh. ‘Oh, you know. My life’s a wreck . . .’

  ‘Stop that. I won’t have you sinking. It’s just a glitch, hon. We all have them.’ She smiled encouragingly, reached for his hand as he sat down. ‘Chase always said, “If you have despair you might as well put your head in the oven.”’

  Very cheering, thought Freddy. You’re such a wag, Chase. To Shirley, he said, ‘Your Chase knew a thing or two.’

  They both listened to the storm.

  ‘Are you thinking of going back to the UK?’ she asked, not relinquishing his hand, her voice nonchalant.

  ‘Not sure.’ Shirley still had no real idea why he was hiding out in Malta and he obviously wasn’t going to tell her. ‘I don’t have a job, now the business has gone bust.’

  ‘Couldn’t you find work here? I know the government has just announced a movie fund, and there’s always lots of movies being shot here, because of the weather.’ She paused. ‘I’m not sure what exactly you do, Freddy. How would you describe your work?’

  He forced a laugh. ‘Good question. I used to be a sound engineer, but I haven’t done that in years, not since I got my own studio, and no one would employ me as one now. I suppose you could call me a businessman or entrepreneur. I set stuff up, raise money . . . network. I’m good at networking, Lily always says.’

  Shirley’s face lightened. ‘Well, that’s a marvellous skill. I’ve got this friend, Julian, a British producer, TV shows mostly, I think. He’s lived here for years, on and off. He’ll know who to talk to. I could introduce you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Maybe that’s the way forward, he mused drunkenl
y. Find a job here, where no one knows me, make some money . . . For a moment he envisaged Lily living there with him, pictured them doing up Nanna Pina’s flat, making it properly habitable. He had done little beyond a cursory clean of the place and still slept on the sofa – the bed was rock hard and reminded him too much of his grandmother – with a duvet, pillows and the cheap scratchy cotton covers he’d bought in the local discount store. It wasn’t home, just a staging post, but could it be?

  Shirley had got the bit between her teeth now and was banging on about location work and Valletta being the European Capital of Culture in 2018. Freddy tried to look enthusiastic, but his brain was befuddled and he was barely managing to keep up.

  A deafening clap of thunder overhead roused him from his torpor, making them both jump. It was followed, almost immediately, by a violent electric-blue flash that lit up the sky, then another booming clap.

  ‘Heavens!’ Shirley exclaimed. ‘You won’t be able to go home in this.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be fine,’ he assured her, not relishing the prospect at all.

  ‘Nonsense. You’ll be soaked through. You can stay in the spare room . . . I insist.’

  More brandy and maybe an hour of desultory chat later – Freddy had no idea of the time – Shirley led him through to the back of the condo and opened the door to his bedroom. Like the rest of the place, it was decorated in neutral cream and immaculately tidy, with built-in wardrobes, nondescript seascape prints on the wall and a double bed, already made up with smooth cream linen, a blue and cream striped quilt folded across the foot, an assortment of blue and yellow cushions at the head, as if she were expecting company.

  ‘There’s water on the nightstand and I have a spare toothbrush,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to sleep in the buff, unless you want a pair of Chase’s pyjamas?’

  Freddy did not.

  *

  He slept like the dead, the wide divan mattress and cool sheets a very pleasant change from the cramped leather sofa in his grandmother’s apartment. It was still dark outside and his head was banging painfully when he surfaced to the disorienting touch of a hand stroking its way down his naked hip and over his thigh. He was immediately awake.