My Favourite Wife

by Tony Parsons

  She grinned. ‘It’s a wise Chinese saying that I just made up.’

  ‘Okay, take it from the top,’ he laughed, framing her face once more. ‘But try breathing this time. You’re allowed to breathe.’

  ‘Pardon?’ She said pardon when she wanted something repeated. He didn’t know anyone who said Pardon?

  ‘Let’s just do it again,’ he said.

  And they did, and his heart sank because he saw that perhaps she wouldn’t be reading the evening news on CCTV. Because all her quirky grace and charm and humour and warmth and loveliness seemed to evaporate the moment the red light came on. And because she was too nervous, and the nerves did not diminish as they did take after take. And because her skin, like her ambitions of TV glory, was strangely adolescent – it was young, troubled skin that was prone to sudden rashes and eruptions.

  Her nerves made him nervous too. When he gave her the nod, her smile – that lovely, natural toothy-goofy smile – became frozen in a cold rictus grin, and she stumbled over her words and couldn’t keep the tremor of fear from her voice.

  She wasn’t good enough. That was the truth. But maybe she could improve, break through the fear barrier, do something about her difficult skin. For some reason he wanted to have faith in her.

  When they had finished filming, she sat him at the table in the tiny kitchen and brought two steaming bowls of congee. She told him that congee, rice porridge, was all she ever ate when she was home alone.

  ‘I go to many restaurants,’ she said. ‘But when I am in my home, I like simple food.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he said, watching her pour two cups of green tea. ‘I go out to a lot of restaurants.’

  ‘With your wife?’ she said, not looking at him.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said. He reached for the cup but it was too hot to hold and he quickly pulled his hand away. ‘But mostly with clients.’

  ‘It doesn’t need to be rich all the time,’ she said.

  Then he heard the key in the door and the man came in. He was suddenly there with them. The unknown man in the silver Porsche.

  He gawped dumbly at JinJin and Bill as if equally surprised to find them here. Bill stared back at him, wondering why he was shocked to discover the man had a key. Of course he had a key. This was his place and he owned it all, including fixtures and fittings.

  JinJin flew to the man’s side, and although she did not kiss him, she laughed and took his arm in a proprietorial way that somehow seemed more intimate than a kiss would have been, and far worse.

  She babbled a happy explanation about what they had been doing, then showed the man an ad in a Chinese newspaper as if to prove she wasn’t lying.

  Bill watched JinJin fussing around the man – getting him settled on the sofa, giving him the Handycam so that he might examine it and give his approval, then going off to prepare fresh tea, all the while chatting away – and Bill fought back emotions he had no wish to feel.

  He was disappointed in her. After those long moments watching the man make himself at home, he was bitterly disappointed in her. He did not want to feel this way, but he couldn’t help it.

  She gave up teaching for this guy? She left those children who adored her for him? She played the golden canary for somebody as ordinary as this? This was the guy she gave her body to?

  The two men nodded at each other, and Bill fought back the bile, his face seized with a disgusted grin of embarrassment and loathing. The man was around forty. No spring chicken, Bill thought. Prematurely grey-haired, but without the physical puffiness that a lot of successful Chinese businessmen toted around. He was a big man – Bill wasn’t sure why that surprised him. Bill also wondered if he had disguised the fact that he despised the man on sight.

  The man was dressed in the smart-casual style of the affluent Asian male. Polo shirt, grey flannel trousers, shoes so polished you could see your face in them – the off-duty-Japanese-salaryman look that all the new Chinese big shots were adopting as their own. He didn’t speak English, and made no attempt to shake Bill’s hand, but there was no hostility there. The man simply did not care. Bill Holden was nothing to him. Just a dumb big-nosed pinky neighbour who had been roped in to do a domestic chore.

  No threat, no rival, no problem.

  Without even being asked, JinJin had clearly offered the man an explanation of what they were doing and the man accepted it. It wasn’t a big deal to him. Bill’s meaningless presence in JinJin’s flat had no impact whatsoever on his life, or his plans for the evening.

  And Bill wondered what Becca would have thought if she had walked in on him pointing a brand-new Sony Handycam at the face of JinJin Li.

  His wife would have seen right through him.

  This is what he wondered. He wondered if every marriage in the world became less and less about the man and the woman and more and more about their child, or if that was just his marriage.

  In the afternoon Becca called him at work.

  Right in the middle of a crisis meeting, a meeting called because back in the UK the press had picked up on the soaring number of industrial accidents in the factories of China, all those men and women who were losing eyes, limbs and lives in the workshop of the world so that the West could have their cheap gadgets and trainers and rock-bottom underpants. Foreign investors in China were suddenly being made aware of the phrase ethical shopping, and up at the firm they knew that this could only be bad for business. Something had to be done.

  But when Bill saw Becca’s number on his phone, he stood up at the conference table with all of them there, Devlin and Shane and Nancy and Mad Mitch, and he did not care what it looked like. No meeting was more important than his daughter.

  ‘Sorry, I have to take this,’ he said, and stepped outside the conference room, and then kept walking, just to be moving, and to stop them from hearing.

  ‘Bill?’

  She sounded down, way down, and he unexpectedly felt a flood of the old love, the original love, the feeling that was there from the start. Just one word and he could read her mood. She said his name and he felt it, knew it with total certainty – it was her father.

  ‘Your dad,’ he said. ‘What’s happened, Bec?’

  But it wasn’t her father. He was wrong.

  ‘My dad’s actually doing okay,’ Becca said, so breezy that Bill felt like a fool. ‘He went to the hospital for his test, but they let him come back home until his cardiologist has looked at the results.’

  Then there’s no excuse, Bill thought. There is just no excuse. ‘So what’s happening with Holly?’

  Becca laughed, and it infuriated him. ‘She’s fine. She’s so grown up. She misses you, Bill. She misses her daddy. She misses it when you throw her around. I can’t do that with her. Not the way you can.’

  He had forgotten about the throwing around. How could he have forgotten that? His daughter would wrap her arms around his neck and he would let her go, and she would scream and squeal as her fingers slipped away and she started to fall, and then – just at the moment she let go – he would catch her and swing her up over his shoulder, and upside down, and into his arms, her eyes inches from his own.

  ‘I talked to my old man,’ he said, suddenly hoping that it wasn’t true and that perhaps the old man had got his ancient wires crossed, the silly old bastard, perhaps Holly had just been shunted off to the mad sister for one night, while Becca’s father had his tests. ‘My old man said that Holly was staying with your sister.’ It always seemed unnatural to call her by her name, as though nothing could fit her better than mad sister. ‘With Sara,’ he said.

  ‘She is,’ Becca said, brightening, as if this were nothing but good news. ‘And Sara’s with this new guy, and he’s just great with Sara’s kids and with Holly.’

  Some guy? Some fucking guy?

  It got worse.

  It got far worse than Bill had ever imagined. It got so bad that he could hardly contain his feelings.

  ‘I’m coming back,’ Bill said. ‘Next flight. Give me S
ara’s address.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if you can’t take care of her, then I will.’

  ‘You’re not coming back,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to come back. Look, I know how you feel about Sara. And it’s true she has had problems in the past. But she’s calmed down so much over the last few years. Since she stopped drinking and the other stuff, she’s so much nicer, so much more herself. Therapy has done wonders for her. And Holly is totally safe and happy, and I was going to tell you – really – but I knew you’d fret.’

  Then he lost it. ‘You knew I’d fret? I’m doing more than fret, Becca. When were you going to tell me? And let me know when I’m fretting too much for you.’

  ‘But it’s only until my dad is well enough to take of himself.’ Genuinely astounded that he should feel this way. It drove him crazy. ‘And they’re all really great with Holly. They love her so much. Sara. Her kids. All of them. Especially Sara’s partner.’

  Sara’s partner.

  Sara’s fucking partner.

  ‘It’s temporary, Bill,’ Becca said, very calm, and wanting him to be calm too. ‘Until my dad is a little better. And Holly’s very happy. Please believe me.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  And then her sighing. Her sighing was driving him nuts. It would be wonderful if he never heard her sigh again.

  ‘What don’t you like?’

  ‘I don’t like Holly being with strangers.’

  ‘My sister is not a stranger.’

  ‘No, she’s a flake. She’s a lunatic. Always has been. One minute she’s married, the next she’s a lesbian –’

  ‘Oh, that was just a phase after her first marriage broke up. She’s settled down a lot, Bill. Do you think I’d put Holly somewhere there was any sort of danger? Sara’s been a great help to me. You have to trust me on this.’

  But he didn’t trust her on this.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘She should be with you.’

  ‘But I’ve been with my dad.’

  ‘I still don’t like it.’

  Then her patience was gone, and she was sick and tired of him, and there was the coldness that was always waiting there to greet him when he stepped too far out of line.

  ‘But you’re not here, are you?’ she said. ‘So I’m the one who has to deal with it.’

  ‘If anything happens to Holly,’ he said quietly, ‘I’ll never forgive you.’

  ‘Oh fuck you, Bill. How dare you suggest I would put my daughter in any kind of danger? If you want to know the truth, she’s having a lovely time. More fun than she ever has with us. Sara’s family eat their meals together, they spend time together –’

  ‘And we don’t? Why’s that, Becca? Because I’m working twelve hours a day to give you a lifestyle of the rich and famous.’

  ‘You think that because you make the money you’re excused all other duties.’

  ‘You’re always telling me what I think.’

  ‘Does that annoy you?’

  ‘No, I love it. Really. Truly. I fucking love it.’ He looked up and saw Shane waiting at the other end of the corridor. Beyond him the others were waiting for him in the conference room. ‘You should put Holly first,’ Bill said, turning his back on Shane. ‘You should put her before everything.’

  ‘I do, Bill, and one day you’ll realise that,’ she said. ‘What about you? What’s your number one priority? Sara and I were discussing this last night. Some men clock off with their family as soon as they clock in at the office.’

  ‘Don’t you ever discuss me or my business with that crazy bitch,’ he shouted, and heard the line go dead. A hand lightly touched his shoulder. He turned to look at Shane’s face.

  ‘Family all right, mate?’ his friend said.

  ‘Never been better, mate,’ said Bill.

  Becca watched Sarfraz Khan walking towards them down the corridor of the paediatric clinic with a big smile and for a long moment she thought she was seeing things.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said, thinking how rude that sounded.

  ‘Seeing some friends,’ he said. He crouched down to say hello to Holly. He was good at that, Becca thought. He always arranged himself so that he was on the same level as the child. ‘I’m getting the train up to Liverpool tomorrow morning.’ Something passed briefly across his face. ‘My mother hasn’t been well.’

  He stood up and looked away, running a hand through his glossy black hair, and she recognised that feeling. The guilt of the absent adult child.

  Becca was aware of her sister staring at her, and at Sarfraz Khan, and she hastily made the introductions. The doctor shook Sara’s hand, his eyes flicking almost imperceptibly over her cropped orange hair.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he asked Becca, and she knew he was talking about Holly.

  ‘Good,’ Becca said. ‘Very good. No more attacks. She likes being back in London. Misses her father, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, and he dropped into his professional squat again, smiling at Holly. ‘How was that long plane journey?’

  ‘I saw the cockpit,’ she said.

  ‘Did you?’ he said.

  ‘It’s where the pilot goes,’ she nodded. ‘They invited me.’

  ‘Wow,’ he said, standing up and smiling at Becca. ‘I wish I got invitations like that.’ He hesitated for a moment, as if summoning up his courage. ‘You’re not free for a quick coffee, are you? It turns out my old friends here have other plans.’ He tried to make a joke of it. ‘How quickly they forget.’ He looked at Holly and Sara. ‘I mean – all of us. If you’re free.’

  Becca shook her head. ‘Sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘Oh go on,’ Sara said, nudging her, and Becca caught a glimpse of the old recklessness. ‘I’ll take Holly home and you have coffee with your friend.’ She turned to Khan. ‘She’s hardly been out of the house since she came back, unless it’s to see some kind of doctor.’

  ‘Well, he’s a doctor too, of course,’ Becca said, but somehow it was settled. Becca and Sarfraz watched Sara and Holly walking up Great Portland Street until they disappeared into Regent’s Park. Then he turned to her and clapped his hands. She didn’t think she had ever seen an Indian blush before.

  ‘Starbucks?’ he said. ‘There’s one right across the street from my hotel.’

  Becca grimaced. ‘Don’t we see enough of Starbucks in Shanghai?’ she said.

  ‘Then the café at my place,’ he said, and she found herself accompanying him to his hotel. Should have gone to Starbucks, she thought.

  He had a room at the Langham on Portland Place. There was a café in the lobby, full of tourists buttering scones and enjoying high tea. They ordered their coffee and she started to relax. Khan was so clearly a decent man, and he was so open about his guilt about his mother – struggling with the early stages of MS while her only son was on the other side of the world – that she found herself opening up and telling him how torn she also felt. Torn between their family life in Shanghai and her responsibility in London, between the roles of mother and daughter and wife.

  ‘Sometimes I just don’t know what to do,’ Becca said. ‘No, that’s not true – I never really know what to do.’ She stared at her coffee cup. ‘Because the most important things in my life -my father, my husband, my daughter – are all pulling me in different directions.’

  Khan stared at her thoughtfully, and she thought that mentioning Bill had subdued him somewhat. And she was glad about that because she did not want him to confuse a coffee break with a date. But then she realised that he was just trying to remember something.

  ‘This is what you shall do,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘This is what you shall do,’ he said again. ‘Love the earth and the sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labour to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning god, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to no
thing known or unknown or to any man or number of men.’

  ‘Well, thanks for the advice,’ Becca said. ‘I’ll certainly keep all that in mind.’

  He was crestfallen. ‘Don’t you like it?’ he said.

  ‘I think it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard in my life,’ she said. ‘What is it? A poem?’

  He nodded. ‘Walt Whitman. Did you know he was a doctor of sorts? Cared for the injured and the dying during the Civil War. It was the defining experience of his life.’

  He called for the bill and tried to put it on his room but Becca insisted on paying it. She was glad he didn’t offer much of a fight. When they were in the lobby she said she hoped that things worked out with his mother and his trip up to Liverpool.

  ‘Take good care of your mum,’ she said.

  ‘Go freely with powerful uneducated persons,’ he said, stepping sideways to avoid a bellhop wheeling a stack of suitcases, ‘and with the young and with mothers of families.’

  And Becca thought – a doctor who quotes poetry.

  ‘Read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life,’ he said, as if she was no longer there, ‘re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem…’

  She wasn’t sure how it happened.

  She told him that she was going to the little bookshop in Primrose Hill first thing in the morning to buy everything she could find by Walt Whitman. And Khan said he had a copy of the collected works in his hotel room and he wanted Becca to have it.

  She said oh really that’s okay no thanks but he insisted, and she didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. That would have been even worse. So they walked through the gilded old lobby of the Langham because somehow it would have seemed inappropriate to wait in the lobby while he went off to fetch Walt Whitman and then they got into the mirrored lift and said nothing as the floor lights ascended and they went up to his room.

  Khan let himself into the hotel room. Becca followed him. It was a suite, far larger than she had been expecting.

  ‘They upgraded me,’ he said, picking up the chocolate truffle that had been placed on his pillow. ‘I always stay here when I get back from Shanghai on my way up to Liverpool. It’s too far all in one day.’ He was talking too much. He turned to face Becca and they stared at each other for a moment and then he popped the chocolate in his mouth. ‘I’ll get you that book,’ he said through a mouthful of chocolate, and went into the other room.