Heartbreak Hotel

by Deborah Moggach

  There was a silence. He could feel her looking at him, the heat of her expectation.

  ‘Don’t you think?’ she said.

  ‘Think what?’

  ‘Andy!’

  She turned away abruptly. What did she want? More and more often, he felt the weight of something heavy between them. He would catch her looking at him through narrowed eyes. A small sigh and she would turn away, as she did now, and squeeze out the sponge.

  He yawned. ‘I’m off to bed.’

  In the bathroom he stood at the mirror, brushing his teeth. Toni’s footsteps ascended the stairs. The bedroom door opened and closed, with a click. His ear still ached. Maybe a parasitic worm was burrowing into his brain. Could he use it as an excuse? Sorry, sweetheart, I can’t have sex tonight because I’m dying. He paused, toothbrush in hand, and listened. Not a sound. Maybe, if he stayed in the bathroom long enough, Toni might simply fall asleep.

  Were all women like this? It wasn’t a question he could ask his mates; men didn’t talk about such things, not once a steady girlfriend was involved, and besides they would laugh in his face. She wants THAT MUCH sex? Blimey, and you’re complaining, you lucky sod?

  Andy rinsed his mouth. Of course he had had girlfriends in the past but he had never actually lived with one. Moving in with Toni had placed several demands on him but he hadn’t predicted this one, nor its result – the mixture of dread and incipient exhaustion as night approached. He loved her but the woman’s stamina was astonishing, as indeed was the frequency of her orgasms; they were like the London Tube, a rumble in the tunnel announcing the arrival of yet another one in three minutes’ time.

  Andy realised that he was sitting on the edge of the bath, his head resting against the wall. How cool the tiles were . . . he could almost nod off now. The trouble was that he desperately needed to sleep. He was a postman, he had to get up at five in the morning.

  ‘Hey, you.’

  Toni, eyebrows raised, head on one side, smiled at him. She wore her blue satin dressing gown.

  ‘Time for beddy-byes,’ she said, taking his hand.

  She led him into the bedroom, shrugged off the dressing gown and swung round to face him. Her midriff was encased in a black lace corset thing that pushed up her breasts; she wore fishnet stockings and high heels.

  ‘Wow,’ said Andy.

  ‘Went a bit mad at Brent Cross.’ She pulled him down on the bed and unbuckled his belt. ‘Let’s get these off, big boy.’

  Night lights flickered among the teddy bears; it gave them a conspiratorial air. Two dolls leaned together. Andy felt, as always, that he was interrupting something. The soft toys had been talking about him before he came and they would talk about him when he left. The whole bunch of them had it in for him. He had blundered into this girly, pastel room; he had stolen their mistress’s affections and he would be punished for it.

  Toni peeled off his socks. For a while, after reading an Indian manual, she had been into tantric sex. He had never quite got the hang of it – nor, he suspected, had she. In fact, at one point he had remembered the plumber joke, you stay in all day and nobody comes, and had snuffled with laughter, which had killed the whole thing dead.

  Toni was straddling him now. She was a heavy girl; they had sunk down into the mattress and she had to steady herself on one knee.

  ‘That’s so good, so good,’ she moaned, flinging her head back. He tried to concentrate on giving her pleasure, it was good, but his mind drifted to the River Lee, to the shady bank he loved and the soft plop as the weight sank into the water . . . And now he was back in his childhood, standing on the beach at Dawlish, skimming pebbles . . . his father, who would soon be gone forever, laying his hand on his shoulder . . .

  ‘Cockee want suckee?’ whispered Toni. She lay on top of him, nuzzling his ear and rotating her hips from side to side.

  ‘Not yet,’ he panted. He must concentrate on not coming too soon. They were both sweating; their skin, as they moved, made soft little farts.

  ‘Yes . . . oh yes,’ she moaned.

  Suddenly the desire drained out of him. An image rose in front of his eyes; it was himself, being led around like a prize bull by Toni. She was a competitive girl; there was something grimly determined about her lovemaking, something of the look-at-me about it. She was performing like a porn star not for her teddies but for her girlfriends. We were at it all night.

  ‘What’s the matter, love?’ Toni rolled off him.

  ‘Sorry. Got earache.’ This was a lie; his earache had gone.

  She looked at him, her hair tangled. One of her breasts had popped out of the corset.

  ‘Don’t you love me any more?’ Blushing, she stuffed the breast back in.

  It rose up in a rush – pity for her, for himself. Andy wanted to say: I was thinking of my father, how I don’t even know where he lives, whether he’s alive or dead. Maybe it was that accident, I don’t know. I feel both strange and very tired tonight. He wanted to say: You don’t have to prove anything to me. I love you, I’m here, isn’t that enough? He wanted to tell her that he admired her, that she had pulled herself out of poverty, out of a family even more dysfunctional than his own, that she had shown more courage and guts than he would ever possess.

  ‘Say something.’ Toni lay beside him on the duvet, staring at the ceiling. Now that desire had evaporated, he knew she felt ludicrous in that outfit.

  ‘You seem to have more fun with your girlfriends than with me,’ he said, ‘nattering away six to the dozen.’

  ‘Yeah, because they talk.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘What do you mean, anything?’

  ‘Oh, I give up!’ She heaved herself off the bed. Grabbing her dressing gown, she slammed into the bathroom.

  Ryan started crying. Andy heard the muffled wails and then Toni’s footsteps. Through the bedroom wall he could hear her crooning to her son. For years it had just been herself and Ryan, alone in the world. She spoilt him rotten but then what did Andy know about being a parent?

  Her Snoopy clock said 12.55. Andy’s body longed for sleep but his mind was whirring. He knew, for some reason, that he was at a crossroads in his life. He lay there naked, sweating in the heat. Outside this stuffy little house, a house he shared with a large young woman he barely knew, lay a dangerous world where a human being had been snuffed out that very afternoon. Each click of the clock took him nearer his fortieth birthday and the blurred, alarming years beyond it. Here he felt safe. He wasn’t an intruder, it was his home too. He shared it with this makeshift little family, whose murmurs he could hear through the wall. A year ago he hadn’t known they had existed but a click of his computer had brought them into his life, had brought Toni into his bed. How weird was that?

  A breeze blew through the window; one of the night lights guttered and died.

  Toni came in. ‘He’ll be all right now.’ She turned her back to Andy and started undressing.

  He couldn’t bear it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just feel . . .’

  ‘Feel what?’ She was bent over, peeling off her stocking. He felt her humiliation, and his failure.

  ‘A lot of things, I guess,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I have a cigarette?’

  ‘What?’ She straightened up.

  His jacket lay on the floor. He rolled over, fumbled inside it and took out his cigarettes. He flung himself against the pillow, exhaling smoke. It was strangely exhilarating, to pollute their boudoir.

  ‘Tell me what’s the matter,’ she said.

  The words came out in a rush. ‘I’m not up to it, love. I feel like I’m on display, I feel like you’re measuring me up against other blokes. Like Ryan’s dad, for instance.’

  ‘Ryan’s dad?’ Toni sat down, one stocking around her ankle. ‘Why?’

  ‘Him being black.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  He sucked in a lungful of smoke. ‘You know what they say about black men.’
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  Toni stared at him. ‘You blokes, honestly! Listen, I hardly knew him, he worked out at my gym, we went on a few dates. He wasn’t even that great in the sack if you really want to know, it was all over in, like, one nanosecond. Is that really what’s been bothering you?’

  Andy blushed. ‘I guess I’ve been feeling . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Toni came over and sat on the bed. She had washed off her make-up; in the flickering light her face looked plainer and more honest. ‘Talk to me,’ she said.

  He could smell her face cream. Suddenly he felt close to her – truly close. He took a breath. ‘I just feel – like, I’m not up to scratch. I’m doing this boring job – well, you think it’s boring. I’m useless around the house. You’ve got everything spotless, you’re a great little homemaker, and I just get under your feet.’ He inspected his cigarette; there was nowhere to stub it out. ‘And sometimes . . . you know, here . . .’ He nodded at the duvet. ‘Well, I’m just too bloody tired. But I’ve got to – like, well . . . you know. But to tell the truth, sometimes I just fancy a mug of Horlicks.’

  Toni took his cigarette and squashed it into a night light. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I thought you’d be hurt.’

  She pointed down to her corset. ‘This doesn’t turn you on?’

  He shook his head. ‘To be honest.’

  She snatched away her hand. ‘Now you tell me!’

  ‘It doesn’t do you any favours, love.’

  ‘You mean I’m fat?’

  ‘No,’ he lied. ‘I just like you looking natural.’ This seemed the right thing to say but she picked up her dressing gown. He watched her put it on again, her eyes glittering with tears. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To sleep with Ryan.’

  He jumped off the bed and grabbed her. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

  She shook him off. ‘You don’t fancy me, do you?’ she hissed. ‘I’m too fat, aren’t I? Think I don’t look at myself and think – what on earth does he see in me, good-looking bloke like him? Think my girlfriends aren’t mad with jealousy? Nobody thought I’d pull someone like you, I couldn’t believe it myself, I still don’t believe it, I thought I’d never find anybody, I’d never have a steady boyfriend.’ She threw her arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder. ‘I know I’m not gorgeous like Jodie and Vick, I know you’re going to leave me.’

  Andy pushed her away. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Cos I’m ugly.’

  He looked at her. ‘You’re not ugly, you’re gorgeous.’

  She wiped her nose. ‘That true?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

  ‘You never said it.’

  ‘I’m saying it now.’

  She astonished him, this vulnerable girl who was suddenly revealed to him. Her blunt, naked face gazed up at him as blindly as a puppy.

  ‘Don’t cry.’ His heart swelled. ‘I’ll look after you.’

  ‘Will you?’ she whispered.

  He kissed her damp eyes, one then the other. ‘You’re safe with me.’ He was her man, her protector. It was such a novel sensation that he felt dizzy. She needed him. Her arms tightened around him.

  Outside, thunder rumbled. A chill wind blew through the window; the last night lights flickered and died.

  ‘Promise you’ll never leave me,’ she muttered into his chest. ‘Ryan loves you too, he thinks of you as his dad now. He’s had a tough time, he’d be gutted if you dumped me.’

  ‘I won’t!’ he blurted into the darkness. ‘I’m here for you. Why don’t we get married?’

  She froze in his arms. ‘You mean that?’

  ‘Of course!’ he said, inflamed by his own recklessness. He, Mr Caution. Look at me now!

  Toni still hadn’t moved. In the silence he could hear the far hum of the North Circular. His life was shifting beneath him.

  ‘On one condition.’ Emboldened, he spoke into her hair. ‘You get rid of those fucking teddy bears.’

  Later, Andy looked back on that night. The curtain between them had lifted and they were revealed to each other. There was a thunderstorm, he remembered that; the summer’s heatwave had broken. Afterwards they had climbed into bed, exhausted, and had made love like true lovers, openly and deeply. In the morning he had walked into the sorting office, his eyes stinging from lack of sleep, his limbs as heavy as sandbags. He was filled with a kind of numb exhilaration.

  I’m going to get married. He slotted the letters into their pigeonholes, his mates’ banter echoing from far away. He was both sealed off and yet somehow united with the human race. This is what blokes did: they got married, they had kids. He told nobody; big with his secret, he joked with his mates as if it were a normal day. Later, as he trudged the streets, he looked at the Mr and Mrs on the envelopes. Credit-card bills, boring stuff like that, nobody wrote real letters any more. But even the junk mail felt potent. Mr and Mrs; he had cracked the code, he had joined the club. After the storm the streets smelt fresh, even the streets of Neasden, their front gardens concreted into car parks, their rubbish heaped on the kerb. A blackbird sang for him.

  Four years had passed since then. The curtains had opened and closed so briefly; that moment of naked honesty had never quite been repeated. They moved into a larger house, in Cricklewood, and spent eighteen months on renovations, the air bedimmed with plaster dust. Toni had revealed herself to be a shrewd businesswoman. Since the crash, property prices had slumped; she had given up her hairdressing job and bought three buy-to-lets in Stratford, near the Olympics, prices were already rocketing. She worked out at the gym, she hired a private tutor for Ryan, who was getting poor grades at school. She was an achiever.

  ‘Why don’t you give up your job?’ she said. ‘The pay’s rubbish, you’re always exhausted. You could come in with me and project-manage. I’m exchanging on Calthorpe Road next week and it needs a lot of work.’

  Andy didn’t reply. When she told people my husband’s a postman she gave a titter. Was she ashamed of him?

  Toni looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Or maybe you like flirting with the housewives.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ He delivered in Neasden; most of his customers were Punjabi. ‘Some of them don’t even speak English.’

  ‘Who said you have to talk?’

  Andy shrugged. She hadn’t a clue. He pictured the bashful, sari-clad matrons taking delivery of their sons’ Amazon parcels and wanted to laugh. He wasn’t a flirt; he was a postman, and proud of it. Toni would never understand his feelings of loyalty towards his customers, his knowledge that he played a small but essential role in their lives. In fact, he loved his job. Despite the heavier loads and longer shifts, despite the meddling from management, the targets and directives and corporate bollocks, despite the imploding chaos that was Royal Mail, there was still a sense of camaraderie in the sorting office. He enjoyed the magic of dawn, the suburban streets coming to life. He liked the curious mixture of the solitary and communal that was a postie’s working day. He told none of this to Toni. Besides, she had never asked.

  ‘Now you’re sulking,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Ha, you’re going all red!’ She nudged her son. ‘Look, Ryan, Daddy’s getting cross.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He wanted to say, I’m not his daddy. ‘Here we are.’

  They had arrived at the park gates. It was a Saturday and he was taking them on a jaunt.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Ryan.

  ‘I told you. There’s something I want to show you.’ Andy led them along the path. ‘One of my mates told me about it. It’s called Postman’s Park because it’s near the main sorting office.’

  Office buildings reared up around them. Beyond them stood St Paul’s Cathedral, unseen but immense.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ said Toni.

  ‘Yes there is.’

  He led them past the flower beds to a wall of china tiles, sheltered by a roof. Th
ey were alone among the plane trees in the hushed little park.

  ‘I thought we were going to the new shopping centre,’ said Toni. ‘The one by St Paul’s. I thought that was the surprise.’

  ‘No. This is.’ He pointed to the tiles. ‘They were put up in Queen Victoria’s time. Go on, read one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Read one. They’re amazing.’

  Toni looked at him, puzzled. She stepped closer and peered at a tile. ‘Frederick Alfred Croft, aged 31, saved a lunatic woman from suicide at Woolwich Arsenal Station but was himself run over by the train.’

  ‘Gross,’ said Ryan.

  ‘Look, this boy’s your age,’ said Andy. ‘Henry James Bristow, aged 7, saved his little sister’s life by tearing off her flaming clothes but caught fire himself and died of burns and shock.’ He looked down at Ryan. ‘They’re just ordinary people, like us, who did really brave things. These are their memorials.’

  ‘What a twat,’ said Ryan, rummaging in his nostril.

  Toni sat down on a bench. ‘I don’t believe this. You sick or something?’ She shook her head wonderingly. ‘You brought us all the way here to look at this? Know how weird that is?’

  ‘I just thought – it was kind of inspirational –’

  ‘Look at Ryan! You’ve so totally freaked him out.’

  They looked at Ryan’s bent head. He was sitting on the grass, playing on his Nintendo DS.

  ‘He looks all right to me,’ said Andy.

  ‘He’ll be having nightmares for weeks.’

  Ryan looked up. ‘This is boring. I want to go home.’

  ‘See?’ Toni got to her feet. ‘He needs to get out of here, it’s cree-eepy.’ She grabbed Ryan’s hand. ‘Come along, darling. Let’s go and find an ice cream.’

  Mrs Enid Price lived at 12 Arnos Drive, Neasden. Andy had been delivering her mail for years. She was an elderly widow, racist and testy, but he was fond of her. She was lonely, her neighbours had left, one by one, to be replaced by multi-occupancies and by Indian families with whom she had little in common; sometimes Andy suspected that he was the only person she spoke to all day. In the way of postmen, he was intimate with her life. He knew about her old schoolfriend in Wigan (shakily written address), the state of her finances (final demands), her love of birds (RSPB magazine). Sometimes she grabbed his arm with her ruthless fingers. ‘I need your help, young man,’ she said, and propelled him into her lounge to swat a wasp or shift a piece of furniture. She told him about her late husband, how he had been a medical auxiliary in the war, pulling out bodies from the rubble, how he had never truly recovered. Sometimes Andy would stop by, at the end of his round, and have a cup of tea.