Something Blue

by Rosie Orr

  Jack eyed the revolting mess miserably, speared a pea and put it in his mouth. At least it was quiet, apart from the sound of Ruth masticating. The twins were currently refusing to eat anything except cucumber, which meant they’d graced the table for about two minutes, and Charlie had doused his pile of oven chips with ketchup, hoovered down the lot in three seconds flat and repaired to the garden to ‘be nice to Spike’. Ruth had smiled fondly as he departed; Jack felt too depressed to do more than hope ‘being nice to Spike’ would stop short of actual dismemberment. He speared another pea, thought better of it, put it back and began to rearrange the pile with the blade of his knife.

  ‘And make you mine again.’

  Sweet fucking, sodding Jesus. What if Michael – no, Martin – Christ, what was the bastard’s name? Tony, right, yes, that was it. What if he took one look at Anna and decided he wanted her back? What if she took one look at Tony – and for all he knew the creep was an oily sweet-talking two-timing jerk like that stupid prat of a doctor – and decided she felt the same?

  ‘Jack.’

  The smooth sod was probably blond and tanned like that ruddy wanker too, after all he’d been living in Australia for years.

  ‘There’s something I …’

  He pushed the peas around faster.

  They’d probably sit together in the church. If that didn’t rekindle old memories and revive the old spark nothing would! Anna would be looking fabulous – he couldn’t remember exactly what she’d be wearing, hadn’t she mentioned some sort of frock or something she’d fixed up herself? – and smelling of that perfume she always wore, and she’d have her hair up, and he’d bet she’d be wearing those stockings with the lacy bits at the thighs that made him sweat just thinking of them, and that randy little bastard of an ex of hers would …

  Glancing down he saw he’d formed the peas into a T; he grabbed the ketchup and doused the T in ketchup. It looked like blood.

  Good.

  He’d run a hand down the smooth curve of her bum while they were leaving the church and he’d grab her and squeeze her to his manly chest moaning, ‘How could I have left you, precious girl …?’

  ‘I’m speaking to you, Jack.’

  Anna would look at him with tears in her eyes and, quick as a flash, the bastard would steer her into a pew …

  ‘Jack.’

  … throw her down, pull up her skirt and …

  He drew in his breath sharply and threw down his fork.

  ‘Ruthie, it’s no good. There’s something I’ve simply got to –’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake stop interrupting me, Jack. There’s something I’ve got to bloody tell you.’

  He closed his eyes. She was going to complain about the mess he’d made with the sodding tomato sauce, follow that up with a brief discourse on the shocking waste – had nobody told him about famine in the third world and didn’t he realise the price of ketchup …

  ‘I’m leaving you.’

  … and finish with detailed instructions on how she wanted her post-prandial coffee made. He knew how she wanted her post-prandial … hang on a minute. ‘Leaving you.’

  He must be hallucinating. It was incredible what stress could do to you. Or maybe (he clutched a hand to his head) the brain tumour was kicking in already?

  ‘Jack? Did you hear what I said?’

  He opened his eyes slowly. Ruth was sitting opposite him, knife and fork placed neatly together on her plate. She was wearing a red and white candy-striped blouse he’d never seen before and she’d done something different to her hair. Christ. It must be a tumour – she looked almost human. Still, he might as well enjoy the fantasy while he could – the spell could break any moment and he’d be thrust back into harsh reality. OK. He’d roll with it.

  ‘You’re … leaving me?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Wow. He’d had dreams like this – so real you could swear it was really happening till you woke up and smelled the toast burning and heard the kids fighting and Ruth shouting at the milkman.

  ‘I’m going to live with Peregrine.’

  Eh?

  ‘Peregrine Anstruther-Jones.’

  Hey – this was fun. ‘Who?’

  She sighed. ‘Do listen, Jack. Peregrine Anstruther-Jones. He’s the father of Friday’s five-to-seven GCSE maths retake. It’s Gideon’s fifth attempt – the poor boy simply can’t get the hang of multiple fractions, no matter how loudly I shout – so I’ve been going to the house for some time. I got into the habit of having a small gin and orange with Perry post-lesson last term while we discussed Gideon’s learning difficulties.’

  A small gin? He almost laughed aloud. Ruth never drank alcohol.

  ‘One thing led to another, and somehow we found ourselves …’

  In his fantasy she’d had a fringe cut. That figured – it almost hid the way her eyebrows grew together in the middle.

  ‘And of course we’re both passionate about cacti …’

  And her blouse was fastened at the neck with a brooch he’d never seen before.

  ‘… and Rodgers and Hammerstein.’

  It seemed to be some kind of dog. A Scottie, was it? It was hard to see because of the way its eyes glittered under the harsh overhead light. Wow. This must be what being on drugs must be like.

  ‘Agatha Christie’s novels, and the Telegraph crossword.’

  She’d always refused to let him buy the Guardian, so he had to make do with the copy in the staffroom at school – it was crumpled and coffee-stained most days by the time he got to it, and the best bits had been torn out. And now it was featuring in this waking fantasy – obviously his feelings had gone deeper than he realised. Let’s see how far he could push this. Ruth always complained he used too much ketchup, didn’t she? Right. Get a load of this, poppet. Reaching for the plastic bottle, he squeezed it hard over the congealed hamburger remains. It proclaimed its emptiness with an aggressive hiss. This wasn’t the way fantasies were supposed to go. He tapped his head to give things a bit of a jog and squeezed the bottle again. It responded with a volley of loud, wet farts.

  ‘Stop playing with that bloody bottle and bloody listen, will you?’ Ruth leaned forward and jabbed him in the back of his hand with the plastic blade of the Kiddie’s SAS Kombat Knife that was the only implement Charlie would use at table these days. It hurt. He looked down to see a pinkish gouge on the back of his hand, oddly realistic for a dream. Christ on a pogo stick! This was really happening.

  No, surely, it couldn’t be.

  He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. ‘We seem to be out of ketchup, dear.’

  The little smile that had been playing about her lips – surely that wasn’t lipstick she was wearing? – disappeared as she snatched the bottle out of his hand and banged it down on the table. ‘Isn’t that absolutely bloody typical!’ She leaned forward, screaming into his face. ‘I tell you I’m leaving you, and all you’ve got to say is we seem to be out of bloody ketchup, dear?’

  Outside in the garden, Spike began to howl; the hideous racket blending seamlessly with the moans and yells from the twins’ room which Jack assumed was a current hit single.

  ‘Let me tell you, Jack, that’s exactly why I’m leaving. Not just because I’m sick of …’

  He noticed absently that Ruth’s whiteheads had cleared up.

  ‘… your pathetic apology for a bloody career. And not just because I’ve had enough of having absolutely no support whatsoever with the children or the fact that you never lift a hand to help in the house …’

  Her eyes filled suddenly with tears; she dashed them away angrily.

  ‘… or the way you pick your nose while you’re watching television and insist on keeping your bloody socks on in bed. I’m leaving you because I’m sick of being treated like a bloody servant, Jack.’

  That was a bit rich – he distinctly remembered making her a cup of tea the day she came home from hospital after having the twins. ‘I must say that’s a bit –’

 
‘Don’t interrupt. Perry treats me like a person, Jack. A person. If Perry ran out of ketchup would he come whining to me? No, he would not; it would go straight on to his weekly Ocado order. Frankly, I can’t wait to move into The Grange. It’s enormous, so there’ll be plenty of room for the children – in fact, Perry’s already surround sound and Apple TV in the girls’ rooms.’

  Suddenly he realised the brooch was a gift from poxy, pervy, pustulating Perry. So that was why the Scottie dog’s eyes shone so brightly; they were diamonds.

  ‘And he’s ordered a pedigree puppy for Charlie. He knows how much he adores animals.’

  ‘But we’ve already got a dog.’

  ‘No, Jack, you’ve already got a dog. You’re keeping Spike. He’d be entirely out of place at The Grange.’

  Rising to her feet, she picked up the empty ketchup bottle and dropped it in the bin. The clatter it made as it hit the side made him jump, finally underlining the fact that he was awake and fully conscious and that – thank you, thank you, thank you God – this really was no dream. He wanted to laugh; he wanted to cry. He wanted to run up and down the kitchen whirling like a dervish, howling ecstatically. Glancing up he saw that Ruth was leaning against the draining board with folded arms and regarding him through narrowed eyes, waiting for a reaction. Christ. If she knew he was practically wetting himself with joy she’d crucify him and have a quick snack of the remains on toast later, while she watched Question Time.

  Quickly he sank his head in his hands tried to think of something sad: the look on Spike’s face when he dropped him off at Blue Cross in a couple of days should do the trick. It could take years for him to find a new owner … Jack’s eyes began to sting and his nose filled with mucus. Not bad, Teale – he could give that soap actor lessons any day. He peered through his fingers. Ruth was turning away, looking pleased with herself, and reaching for the jar of dandelion coffee. The thing was not to overdo the shaking shoulders and remember to …

  ‘The children will get on terribly well with Perry. He hasn’t met them yet, of course, but I know it will be fine. And of course once I’m actually living there I’ll get Gideon through that exam in no time.’

  Good Christ, Poovy or Piggy or whatever his name was wouldn’t know what had hit him.

  ‘It doesn’t mean you can abdicate your responsibilities, Jack. I’ll expect half the value of this house …’

  If the poor bugger had any sense he’d be having a moat dug and filled with sharks and an electrified portcullis installed.

  ‘… and maintenance for the children.’

  Jack gave a whoop of laughter at the thought but managed to disguise it as an agonised sob. Time to get out while the going was good; he couldn’t keep this up for ever. Shaking his head numbly as if in shock, he pushed back his chair and stumbled to the door, keeping a hand over his eyes and groping for the handle the way he’d seen Olivier play Oedipus after he’d had his eyes put out.

  Ruth was calling after him sharply, ‘And another thing, Jack …’

  But he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him as he bounded up the stairs, lightheaded with joy. Ruth was leaving him! Not only was he off the hook – he had the moral high ground as well! Hell, he’d probably be able to get off library duty for weeks on the strength of his grief! And as for the timing –it was well-nigh perfect, for what could be more natural after being hit by such a bombshell than to feel the need to get away for a spot of solitary contemplation?

  Trying hard not to break into song, he extricated a holdall from the welter of junk beneath the bed, blew the worst of the dust over Ruth’s pillow, tipped the corpse of a large spider lurking in its pocket into the toe of one of her peach mules and began to pack.

  This time tomorrow he’d be in Ireland.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Anna scanned the rest of Information for Guests. There seemed to be no offer of room-service after the kitchen had closed. Not even a sandwich. She concentrated on looking on the bright side of being found dead from starvation on the morning of her son’s wedding. At least it would be obvious that she had taken her diet seriously.

  She resolved to ignore the grinding hunger pangs and enjoy the other pleasures of staying at The Grand. The luxurious en-suite bathroom … the delights of the hospitality mini-bar … With relief she remembered that the brochure said something about a welcome basket. Now that really would raise the spirits. It was bound to be all cream satin bows and crackling cellophane and exotic fruit and chocolates and champagne and … No, they’d put the champagne in the fridge, wouldn’t they? She’d fortify herself with a sip of chilled bubbly and a chocolate or two, then set about unpacking. Picking up her case, she pushed open the door of her room.

  And almost dropped her case.

  Room 103 was vast, but that was its sole claim to grandeur. A narrow bed lurked in the far corner, a lurid print depicting the crucifixion hanging lopsidedly above the oak headboard. Opposite the bed stood a kidney-shaped dressing table, a portable television perched at one end, a corpse-green Bakelite teasmade at the other. The only other furniture was a gigantic wardrobe, a small rattan coffee table with a matching armchair and the smallest refrigerator Anna had ever seen. The cushion on the armchair was embroidered with the martyrdom of St Sebastian but the wool had frayed around St Sebastian’s loin cloth, creating an exuberant ejaculatory effect disconcertingly at odds with the saint’s peevish expression.

  Anna grinned, then wrapped her arms round herself as she realised she was shivering. The grimy sash window was open at the bottom, letting in a damp, chilly air – one of the curtains had come adrift from its hooks and hung at half-mast. Beneath the windowsill a sign bearing the legend ‘Out of Ordure’ hung from the radiator’s dripping tap. Just for a moment, she allowed fatigue and disappointment to wash over her, before pulling herself together. Was she a mouse or a Mother of the Groom?

  Straightening her back, she strode purposefully over the wasteland of dusty blue carpet printed with faded gold fleur-de-lis, slammed the window shut then headed for the fridge. After a brief but violent tussle the door swung open to reveal, not the champagne she’d been hoping for, but a single bottle of mineral water lying on its side beside an empty ice tray. If it wasn’t for the fact that Tina would get to hear of it, with repercussions that didn’t bear thinking about, she’d make her feelings felt in no uncertain terms on TripAdvisor. She kicked the fridge door shut, hard.

  Definitely time for a spot of deep breathing to promote Inner Calm. Oh, bugger Inner Calm. Anna trekked back to the dressing table and plugged in the teasmade. If only Jack was here! No, she mustn’t go down that road. She’d have to make the best of what was on offer. If she stuffed St Sebastian into the gap at the bottom of the door where yet another icy draught came whistling through, switched on the lamp on the unit beside the bed – that flesh-pink plastic box beside it must be the phone and radio thingy – and pinned the curtain up, the place would feel positively cosy. Well, a bit less like Alcatraz, anyway. And she could see now that the door beside the bed was labelled Bathroom. As soon as she’d hung up her suit and drunk her tea, she’d have a soak in a nice hot bath, and pamper herself with all the hotel freebies.

  Cheered again, she unzipped her case and began to unpack.

  Twenty minutes later Anna returned to the bedroom in rather lower spirits. The bathroom had been even more spartanly appointed than the bedroom. An antediluvian water heater had spewed warmish water into the veined clawfoot bathtub, clanked alarmingly several times then given up. The luxury freebies consisted of a single wafer of unperfumed soap and a plastic bathcap patterned with bright green starfish. So certain had Anna been of the five-star lifestyle awaiting her at The Grand she’d packed neither towels nor dressing gown, an omission she regretted as she dried herself on the thin hand towel provided by the management.

  Quickly she took a set of clean underwear from her case and pulled her clothes back on again, avoiding looking at the teasmade, which had exceeded the water heater’s perfor
mance by refusing even to pretend to be operational. God, she was hungry. She was about to have another go at the teasmade when she noticed a leatherbound book beside the bedside lamp. The room service menu – of course! Why didn’t she think of that before? What about a Grand de-luxe club sandwich – or maybe a Grand de-luxe Special Grill, with a Grand de-luxe side salad of her choice? She was about to dial when a line of swirling gold script at the bottom of the page caught her eye.

  ‘No Room Service between 8.00pm-8.00am’

  Anna glanced at her watch. It was five past nine.

  She’d read somewhere that the thing to do when faced with suicidal thoughts was Keep Busy. Right. She’d hook up the sodding curtain, which would not only improve its appearance but would also ensure that she wasn’t woken at the crack of dawn by sunlight streaming into the room.

  Good.

  Excellent.

  Dragging the rattan chair over to the window, she climbed onto the seat, and from there onto the window sill, and grasped the corner of drooping chocolate-brown polyester in her left hand. She was fumbling for the plastic rings on the curtain rail when she heard a car engine. Or rather, engines; glancing down from her precarious perch she saw that car after car was sweeping into the forecourt below. Christ. Must be more wedding guests – Tina had told her proudly that several of the more far-flung relatives and most of Sam and Lucy’s London friends would be staying at the Grand. Car doors slammed, voices floated upwards as greetings were exchanged. Anna jumped down, not caring that she’d pulled the entire curtain with her, crouched below the windowsill and peered out.

  Several Tina clones were stalking across the gravel, screeching greetings at each other, fluffing out their fake furs and rattling their jewellery. The rain had stopped; moonlight gilded their ankle chains and highlighted their hair; silent husbands and sullen children trailed behind them. Apart from them, joking and jostling, were tall glossy girls exuberantly air-kissing each other in greeting and sharp suited young men exchanging high fives – the IT contingent.