My Favourite Wife

by Tony Parsons

  Holly began to cry and Becca held her tight and rocked her, while her eyes scanned the empty streets for another taxi. She tried calling Bill and there was still no signal and after that she didn’t try again. After that she knew she was going to have to do it alone.

  SEVEN

  There was something wrong with his home.

  It should have been still and dark and both of them sleeping, with just a nightlight left on in the kitchen. But all the lights were blazing. The television was on and BBC World was playing its theme tune. The door to the master bedroom was flung open.

  And they were gone.

  Bed empty. Duvet on the floor. Lights on. And Becca and Holly were gone.

  He flew through the apartment, throwing open doors, calling their names, and the panic was a physical sickness he could feel in his throat and in his gut.

  Calling their names, even though he knew they were not there. Shouting their names over the bloody theme tune to BBC World. He didn’t understand what was happening. It made no sense at all. He wanted them back. He looked at his watch and covered it with his hand. It was so late. He wanted to throw up.

  ‘Becca!’

  He walked to the table and picked up the mouthpiece to his daughter’s respirator.

  His phone began to ring.

  * * *

  This was what she was good at. This was what she could do. She could look after her child. She could do that. And as long as she could do that, the rest of the world could go hang.

  Holly was sitting up in bed in a private room at the International Family Hospital and Clinic on Xian Xia Lu being examined by a young doctor with an Indian face and a Liverpool accent.

  ‘Have you heard of a man called Beethoven?’ Dr Khan asked Holly, his fingers lightly feeling her ribs.

  ‘No,’ said Holly warily.

  ‘Beethoven had asthma,’ the doctor smiled.

  Becca laughed, the tears springing. Devlin was standing by her side and he placed a hand on her shoulder. She touched his hand, sick with relief. Holly was going to be all right.

  ‘How about Charles Dickens, Augustus Caesar and John F. Kennedy?’ Dr Khan asked Holly. ‘Have you heard of any of them?’

  ‘I haven’t heard of nobody,’ Holly said, wide-eyed and looking at her mother for prompting. Becca was smiling at her now. ‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’

  ‘Because I’m happy, sweetheart. You make me happy. That’s all.’

  ‘That’s a funny old reason to cry. Grown-ups don’t cry.’

  ‘Well,’ Dr Khan said. ‘Those people all had asthma.’ He pulled down her top. ‘All the best people have had asthma.’ He turned to Becca and nodded. ‘She’s going to be fine.’

  Becca nodded, overcome with gratitude. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ Holly asked him.

  ‘I’m what they call a Senior Medical Registrar,’ he said. ‘It’s a fancy name for a doctor.’ He sat on the bed, holding Holly’s hand as he spoke to Becca. ‘She’s had a trigger reaction that could have been caused by almost anything. If she’s not around tobacco smoke, then air pollution is most likely. Shanghai is better than Beijing, but it’s still a Chinese city. We have some of the worst car pollution in the country. Then there are all the factories and power plants in the northern suburbs, up in Baoshan.’

  ‘Thank goodness they’re starting to control that,’ Devlin said. ‘Ten years ago you often couldn’t see Pudong from Puxi.’

  ‘Asthma is not a disease that we cure,’ the doctor said. ‘But it’s a condition we can control.’ He stood up. ‘But of course you know that already.’

  Becca loved this hospital. Outside its glass doors the Changning District was as grubby and down-at-heel as anywhere in Shanghai, but the International Family Hospital and Clinic looked newer, cleaner and more modern than anything she had ever seen back home.

  ‘All my boys have been in here at some stage,’ Devlin said, as if reading her thoughts and trying to keep the mood merry. ‘The youngest two were born here. And I think we have had – what? -two broken arms, one undescended testicle and a hyper-active thyroid gland.’ He beamed at Dr Khan but Becca knew the words were meant to reassure her. And they did.

  It was reassuring to know that this oasis of Western-trained, English-speaking doctors in their clean blue uniforms was available twenty-four hours a day.

  Unlike her husband.

  Devlin and Dr Khan were gone by the time Bill arrived. Holly was sleeping. Becca was almost asleep herself. Bill stood sweating and panting in the doorway.

  ‘What happened? What happened?’ he said, coming into the room. ‘Is she okay?’

  Becca stirred in her chair. ‘She woke up struggling to breathe,’ she said, her voice sounding mechanical and drained. She wanted to tell him, she really did, but it all seemed a long time ago, and it was all right now, and she really did feel tired. But he wanted more. He wanted to know everything.

  ‘I tried calling you,’ she said. She looked from her daughter to her husband, and couldn’t keep the resentment out of her eyes. ‘Lots of times. No answer. I couldn’t even get your voice-mail.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sinking to his knees next to her. He kissed her hands, kissed her face, put his arms around her. It was like holding a statue.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ she said. ‘I didn’t have the numbers. You know – emergency numbers. It’s not 999, is it?’

  ‘We’ll get all the numbers,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ll get all the numbers for us.’

  ‘I couldn’t even get a taxi. So I called Tess Devlin. She was fantastic. Then things started to happen. Then I had help. Devlin came with Tiger and they brought us here. Holly and me. And Dr Khan – he’s been…’

  Bill was on his feet, looking at Holly’s face, and for a second Becca wondered if he was even listening to her.

  ‘Where were you?’ she said, very calm.

  ‘I went for a drink with Shane,’ he said, and it wasn’t a good moment. He knew how it sounded. ‘The Germans were flipping out. There have been some incidents. At the Green Acres site in Yangdong.’ He shook his head. ‘The security is out of control. They were hitting this little kid. I had to stop them, Bec.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Becca said, turning her face away. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, Bill.’ Looking back at him now. ‘Your daughter is being rushed to hospital and you’re in some bar?’

  Bill stared at her helplessly, feeling useless. He wanted so many things from this world. There was quite a list. But more than anything he wanted his wife and daughter to be happy, safe and proud of him. And he had let them down because he went for a drink with clients and got into a fight over a girl he didn’t know. When it was his family who needed him, when it was his family he should have been with all along.

  Maybe he could have explained it better. He had wanted to come home. He really did. But it was work. He wanted her to understand.

  He wanted her to get it. Surely she knew that there was nothing more important to him than her and Holly? He wanted to tell her everything.

  But he couldn’t tell her about the girl.

  Devlin had told Tiger to wait for them. As they drove back to Gubei, Becca held Holly on her lap and the child slept in her arms. Bill touched his daughter’s hair.

  ‘She’s okay,’ he said. ‘She’s doing really well –’

  Becca’s anger exploded. ‘What do you know about it, Bill? You’re never around. How dare you? And she’s not okay. She’s not okay at school because she started in the middle of a term and the other kids already have their friends so she plays alone in the playground.’ It was all pouring out now, even things she had decided not to share with him because she didn’t want to worry him, because there was enough pressure already, he had enough on his plate at work. ‘Did you know that? Of course you didn’t. And her breathing’s not okay because the air here is filthy. All right? So don’t ever tell me she’s okay, because you know absolutely nothing about it.’

  They s
tared out at the elevated Ya’an Freeway. The lights of the city seemed to be glowing somewhere far below them.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bec,’ he said. ‘It will get better. I’ll make it better.’

  Tears sprang to her eyes. This was a good thing about him. He would always reach out a hand to her. It had always been that way when they argued. He wouldn’t allow them to go to sleep angry and hurt. He always tried to make it better. And he didn’t say what he could have said, what most men would have said – Coming here was your idea. But this life wasn’t what she had expected.

  ‘I wanted us to see the jazz band at the Peace Hotel,’ she said, almost laughing, it sounded so absurd. ‘And I wanted us to buy propaganda posters and Mao badges in the Dongtai Lu antique market. All these places that I read about, all the great places they say you should go.’

  He put his arm around her.

  ‘And I wanted us,’ she said, snuggling down, adjusting Holly on her lap. ‘I wanted us to drink cocktails in hotels where in the thirties you could get opium on room service. I want to support you, Bill. And I want to be a good sport. And I want to muck in and I don’t want to whine. But why isn’t it like that?’

  ‘We’ll do all those things,’ he said, and he touched her face, that face he loved so much, and determined to see her happy again.

  ‘But when?’

  ‘Starting tomorrow, Bec.’ He nodded, and she smiled, because she knew that he meant it.

  Her unhappiness, and her loneliness, and all the panic of tonight were things he would address with the dogged determination that he brought to everything. My husband, she thought. The professional problem-solver.

  He could never understand why people felt sentimental about when they were young. Being young meant being poor. Being young was a long, hard grind. Being young meant doing jobs that sucked the life out of you.

  Being young was overrated. Or maybe it was just him. For in his teens and twenties Bill had endured eight years of feeling like he was the only young person in the world who wasn’t really young at all.

  At weekends and holidays, he had worked his way through two years of A-levels, four years at UCL, six months of his Law Society final exams and his two years’ traineeship with Butterfield, Hunt and West.

  Over eight years of stacking shelves, carrying hods, pulling pints and ferrying around everything from takeaway pizzas (on a scooter) to Saturday-night drunks (in a mini cab) and cases of wine (in a Majestic Wine Warehouse white van).

  The worst job was in a Fulham Road pub called the Rat and Trumpet. It wasn’t as back-breaking as lugging bricks on a building site, and it wasn’t as dangerous as delivering pizza to a sink estate after midnight, and it didn’t numb your brain quite like filling shelves under the midnight sun of the supermarket strip lighting.

  But the Rat and Trumpet was the worst job of the lot because that was where all the people his own age didn’t even notice that privilege had been given to them on a plate. They had a sense of entitlement that Bill Holden would never have, the boys with their ripped jeans and pastel-coloured jumpers and their Hugh Grant fringes, the girls all coltish limbs and blonde tresses and laughter full of daddy’s money.

  He had come across the type at university, but they had not been the dominant group, not at UCL, where the braying voices were drowned out by other accents from other towns and other types of lives. But this was their world, and Bill just served drinks in it.

  Kids whose mothers and fathers had never got sick, or broke up, or divorced, or died. At least that’s the way he thought of them. They all looked as though nothing bad had ever happened to them, or ever would.

  They stared straight through him, or bellowed their orders from the far end of the bar, and he had no trouble at all in hating every one of the fucking bastards.

  The Rat and Trumpet had no bouncer, and sometimes Bill had to throw one of them out. The landlord slipped him an extra fiver at the end of the night for every chinless troublemaker Bill had to escort to the Fulham Road – they called it the Half-Cut Hooray allowance.

  The extra money was greatly appreciated. But Bill – twenty-two years old and furious with the Fates – would cheerfully have done it for nothing. Hilarious, they always said. Like the woman from Shanghai Chic. Everything was hilarious. It was all so fucking hilarious that it made you puke.

  One night some idiot was practising his fast bowling with the Scotch eggs and splattering yolk and breadcrumbs all over the customers in the snug. Howzat? Hilarious, darling. The Scotch-egg bowler was a strapping lad in a pink cashmere sweater and carefully distressed Levi’s. They could be big lads, these Hoorays. They weren’t selling off the playing fields at the kind of school his mummy and daddy sent him to.

  There was a girl with him – one of those girls, Bill thought, one of those Fulham Broadway blondes – who was trying to get him to stop. She seemed halfway to being a human being. Bill gave her credit for looking upset. For not finding it absolutely hilarious. That was the first time he saw Becca.

  Bill politely asked the Scotch-egg bowler to leave. He told Bill to fuck off and get him a pint of Fosters. So Bill asked him less politely. Same response. Fuck off and a pint of Fosters. So Bill got him in an arm lock before his brain had registered what was happening and marched him to the door. It toughed you up on those building sites. It didn’t matter how much sport they played at their private schools, it just wasn’t the same as manual labour.

  A meaty lad but soft inside, Bill thought. He gave him a push at the door – slightly harder than was strictly necessary – in fact a lot harder than was strictly necessary – and the fast Scotch-egg bowler skidded and fell into the gutter.

  At the outside tables, people laughed.

  ‘One day you’ll bring drinks to my children,’ he told Bill, getting up, his face red for all sorts of reasons.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Bill said. They must have been about the same age, he thought. Bill bet his mum wasn’t gone.

  ‘And you’ll be a toothless old git with snot on his chin and your rotten life will be gone and you will still be waiting on the likes of me.’

  Bill laughed and looked at the blonde girl. ‘I hope your kids look like their mother,’ he said, turning away, and never expecting to see her again.

  But Becca came back inside to apologise on behalf of her boyfriend and offer to pay for the Scotch eggs and all the mess, and she was just in time to see the landlord fire Bill, who didn’t like it that Bill had used more force than necessary to throw out the fast Scotch-egg bowler; he wasn’t here to rough up the paying customers, he was here to stop trouble, not to start it, and Bill was saying that he couldn’t possibly be fired, because he was fucking well quitting, okay?

  Becca followed him outside and said, ‘Don’t go.’

  And Bill said, ‘Three quid an hour to be insulted by dickheads? Why not?’

  But that wasn’t what she meant.

  She apologised again and said that he was a nice guy really, Guy was, and Bill got a bit confused there, because the boyfriend’s name was Guy, and they had a little laugh about that, and that was good, because she had such a beautiful face when she laughed, and then she said that Bill shouldn’t think they were all idiots and Bill said ah, don’t worry about it, he had no objection to spoilt rich kids with no manners, they had to drink somewhere, and she said that was not her, and he didn’t know her at all, getting angry now, and he said, Well, prove it – let me have your phone number and I might give you a call sometime, because he really didn’t give a fuck any more and he was sick of not having a girlfriend who looked like her and sick of being lonely and sick of feeling that he had never had the chance to suck all the juice out of being young.

  So she wrote her number on the palm of his hand and by the time he got back to his rented room on the other side of town his heart fell to his boots because the eight digits had almost worn off.

  But he still had the number. Just.

  And that was how he met Becca. She was the first one in that place, the
very first, who didn’t look straight through him, or look at him as if he was dirt, and he would always love her for that.

  And he got scared sometimes. Because his life was unthinkable without her. Because he wondered what would have happened to him if he had not met Becca. He thought – what then?

  Who would have loved me?

  The three of them walked hand in hand through a warehouse full of old masters.

  There was Picasso’s Weeping Woman, Van Gogh’s Starry Night and Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks. There were Degas dancers, Monet waterlilies and haystacks, Cézanne apples and mountains. There were Lichtenstein’s comic-book lovers, Jasper Johns’ flags and Warhol’s Marilyn and Elvis and soup cans. There were canvases stacked everywhere, and on many of them the paint was still wet.

  ‘Do one-two-three,’ Holly commanded, happy to have a parent on each hand, so Bill and Becca went, ‘One-two-three!’ and swung their daughter up between them, her thin legs flying as they walked past Gauguin native girls, a pile of Last Suppers and Mona Lisas by the score.

  ‘One-two-three!’ they chanted, and Holly laughed wildly as they walked past Hockney swimming pools, Jackson Pollock splatter paintings and sailboats by Matisse.

  They stopped at the end of an aisle where a girl in her late teens was painting half a dozen Sunflowers all at once. She worked quickly, occasionally glancing at a dog-eared History of Modern Art.

  ‘It looks absolutely like the picture in the book,’ Holly said.

  ‘It looks exactly like the picture in the book,’ Becca said.

  ‘Is it really real, Daddy?’ Holly said.

  The girl artist smiled. ‘Everything is fake except your mother,’ she said. ‘Old Shanghai saying.’

  Becca ordered four Sunflowers to go with the Starry Night and The Sower that she had already bought. She laughed happily, in a way that she hadn’t laughed for a long time. Vincent Van Gogh was going to fill the walls of their new home.

  They caught a cab to the Bund, which by now Bill had learned to called the Waitan, ‘above the sea’, and finally they saw the jazz band in the bar of the Peace Hotel.