Careless Talk

by David Barry

  ‘So am I,’ he purred. ‘I know I’m not the easiest person to live with but I intend to mend my ways.’ He dropped his voice to an affectionate whisper. ‘Sugar-pie?’

  ‘Y-e-s?’ Jackie answered cautiously.

  ‘Wedding bells will still ring out in the Autumn, won’t they?’

  ‘I still love you, Nigel. But I think it would be better if I lived here with the girls until then.’

  She pressed the telephone closer to her ear. Nothing. A wall of petulant silence. ‘Hello? Nigel? You still there?’

  ‘It’s about the open air concert I said I’d take you to next week. It’s a bit tricky. I’ve got to go away on business. A C.T.I. course.’

  ‘A what?’

  Computer Telephone Integration. Must keep abreast of the latest technological developments, you know.’

  Jackie sighed understandingly. ‘Oh well, not to worry. You mustn’t let a concert stand in the way of work. It’s your livelihood, after all.’

  She was so understanding, Nigel began to feel guilty. They said their goodbyes, blowing kisses down the line, then gently clicked down their telephones.

  Nigel sat at his office desk, thoughtfully chewing his lip. On the desktop lay his Bible. He picked it up and tears swam into his eyes.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered. ‘I won’t ever lie like that again. I promise. But it’s not as though we’re married yet. And I could do with a little....’

  He searched hard to find the right words, not wishing to offend the Almighty, or whoever might be listening. Eventually he found the least offensive euphemism.

  ‘A little break,’ he said. ‘After all, I’ve worked hard this year.’

  Then he opened the bottom drawer, tucked the Bible out of mind, and telephoned his lonely heart contact.

  Fifty

  Andrew lay on his bed, eating his lunch - a bowl of Coco-Pops. His father barged into the room and jumped straight to the point.

  ‘I hear you’ve been spending your money hiring a private eye.’

  Andrew flushed. ‘So what?’

  ‘When are you going to start growing up?’

  Andrew looked up at his father’s towering figure and shrugged irritatingly. ‘It’s my money.’

  Mike felt like smacking the cereal bowl out of his hands. He controlled himself and said, ‘It won’t last long, the way you’re carrying on. Then what’re you gonna do?’

  ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. But you’re always saying it.’

  Shaking his head, Mike sat heavily on the flimsy plastic chair by his son’s desk. ‘So how much have you spent so far?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Between four and five hundred.’

  ‘And what has this gumshoe come up with?’

  Andrew stopped spooning cereal into his mouth and frowned. ‘You what?’

  ‘Gumshoe,’ Mike explained sarcastically, ‘is an American word for a private dick.’

  ‘There’s no need to make it sound so....’ Andrew felt ridiculed and lapsed into a sulky silence.

  ‘Corny is the word you’re looking for,’ continued Mike. ‘As in cloak and dagger. And what exactly has this investigator found out so far?’

  Andrew avoided his father’s eyes. ‘The trail went cold. The printers didn’t have a single copy of the book. Someone had been along to collect them. Every single one.’

  ‘So that’s that then.’

  Andrew pursed his lips. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And you paid over four hundred quid just to find a firm of printers?’

  Andrew nodded unhappily and picked at a hang-nail.

  ‘So now what?’ Mike demanded.

  ‘The investigation agency said the only possibility was to try and trace whoever took the books away.’

  Mike laughed humourlessly. ‘I bet they did. It’s a nice little earner for them.’

  ‘Actually, they recommended that I drop the investigation. Don’t waste your money, they said.’

  Andrew’s head sunk miserably onto his chest. He looked so vulnerable, Mike went over and eased himself onto the bed, facing him.

  ‘Listen, Andy, I know how important this has been to you....’

  ‘No, you don’t. You’ve hardly talked about it.’

  ‘Why don’t we pop out for a beer tonight? You can tell me all about it then.’

  Andrew seemed embarrassed. ‘You wouldn’t be interested. And I know what’ll happen in the pub. You’ll start mouthing off about what I’m doing - all the research about the arms industry and that - and you’ll get into an argument.’

  ‘We needn’t sit near the bar.’ Mike stared at his son, waiting for him to capitulate. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Mike lost patience. Sighing, he glanced at his watch and stood up. ‘I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you later.’

  Andrew didn’t reply. As soon as he heard his father leaving the house, he got up off the bed and took a sheaf of A4 papers out of the bottom drawer of his desk. He took a last look at the untidy hand-written notes. Not being academically inclined, he had found the research demanding. He consigned the notes into the waste-bin, slumped into his chair and switched on the computer.

  ***

  ‘Ted!’ Marjorie yelled. ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

  Ted was about to open the front door. ‘I told you. I’m off to work.’

  Marjorie, almost speechless with shock, stammered, ‘But you ... you ... you’re wearing your uniform.’

  Ted smiled. ‘That’s because I work on the railway.’

  ‘Yes, but I thought we agreed that....’

  ‘I never agreed to anything,’ Ted interrupted. ‘It was your idea.’

  ‘What about the neighbours?’

  ‘Oh, bollocks to the neighbours!’

  Ted marched out of the house, relishing the stunned expression on his wife’s face. He was equally delighted to bump into his next door neighbour, the wife of an advertising executive.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said brightly.

  She didn’t answer. She wore the same stunned expression as Marjorie.

  ***

  ‘Nearly done,’ Mike said snipping the last few hairs at the nape of Graham Harlow’s neck. ‘It’s a bit too hot for work. Humid.’

  ‘Oh, I love this weather. Can’t get enough of it. It makes me feel really positive.’

  ‘Any success with the book yet?’ Mike asked with genuine interest.

  Graham Harlow, in his early sixties, was an ex teacher who had taken early retirement to work as a writer. He had had one novel published, which hadn’t made him very much money, and had written mainly technical booklets and magazine articles. But the huge success always seemed to be teetering, just out of reach.

  ‘I finished my new novel, which is set in America. And now I’ve got an American literary agent, and she’s sent it to a Hollywood producer - a contact of hers.’

  ‘Oh, nice one, Graham. Fingers crossed, eh? And how’s your love life?’

  ‘Fantastic. Two years we’ve been together now.’

  Mike took the mantle from around Graham’s shoulders and shook the hairs onto the carpet. ‘No plans to move in together?’

  ‘We both like our own space. We intend to keep it that way. Pauline’s a keen golfer, and I’m not really interested. Four times she’s played this week. So I only get to see her once this week, at the golf club dinner and dance.’

  ‘That’s more than enough time to spend with a partner,’ said Mike.

  Graham laughed dutifully, then became serious. ‘Oh I’d like to
spend a lot more time with Pauline. But she’s always so busy.’

  He paid for the haircut and showed Mike to the front door of the flat. Then he went and got the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard, intending to clear the hairs from the carpet. Instead, he was distracted by the open window, and went and looked out into the communal garden. Life felt so good. His relationship made him feel positive about his chances of making a success of his second novel. Little did he realise that his life was about to fall apart.

  Fifty - One

  Following Ted’s outburst, Marjorie stood in the hall, paralysed by shock. She felt nauseous and thought she might faint, so she steadied herself against the hallstand. Gradually the feeling passed, giving way to a sudden craving to eat something sweet and sickly.

  She rushed into the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed the remains of a Black Forest gateau, then sat at the table and shovelled it into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks.

  ‘That’s better,’ she sighed when she had finished. She looked towards the larder, wondering if she could still fancy a chocolate biscuit, and the picture calendar that hung from a rusty hook on the wall nearby caught her eye. She stared at the beach scene with a blazing sun, and frowned. Then she got up, fetched the calendar from the wall, and turned back the pages slowly until she reached March, a picture of lambs gambolling in a field. Her lips felt dry. The cake had made her thirsty. She fancied a cup of tea now. But that would have to wait. She went out into the hall, picked up the phone and dialled the number she knew off by heart. It rang a long time before the receptionist answered.

  ‘It’s Mrs. Blackburn. Marjorie Blackburn,’ she said when she got through. ‘I’m a patient of Doctor Jordan. Would he be able to see me today?’

  ***

  At midnight on Saturday, the golf club dinner and dance began to wind down for a half-twelve finish. Graham and Pauline got up for a final smoochy slow number. He held her tight while she sang along to James Blunt’s “Your Beautiful”, softly in his ear.

  Their taxi arrived bang on half-twelve and they both fell into the back. When they got back to her house, she invited him in for a brandy night cap, then they lay back on the sofa, both a little tipsy after so much wine.

  ‘I checked in my old diary,’ Graham said. ‘On Wednesday it will be the second anniversary of our first date. We ought to do something.’

  She avoided looking at him. ‘I’m playing golf on Wednesday.’

  ‘In the evening. I’d like to take you out for a meal to celebrate.’

  ‘There’s a meal being laid on after golf. I will have eaten.’

  ‘OK then,’ he persisted. ‘Maybe we could go out somewhere for a drink afterwards.’

  There was the briefest of silences, before her rush of words. ‘I can’t go on like this anymore. I really can’t. I can’t carry on this way. It’s got to end. I can’t make love to you anymore.’

  It was so unexpected, at first he couldn’t take it in. But he could see by the tension in her body that this was for real. It was showdown time and floods of uncontrollable tears ran down his cheeks.

  ‘But we can’t split up,’ he sobbed.

  ‘I just don’t think we can be lovers anymore. I’m not in love with you, and I feel it’s wrong when we make love.’

  ‘But why now, so suddenly?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sighed. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you. I really didn’t. I did try to tell you some time ago. I said I wasn’t in love with you. I like you, but I don’t love you.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. That was last September, when we got back from that barbecue. And at the time I said I didn’t want to replace your Colin’s love. I know how much you loved him up until his death. But I remember telling you that I wasn’t trying to replace him, or airbrush him out of your history, and I was quite happy to settle for affection and respect. And our relationship seemed to be OK after that. For a good nine months for Christ’s sake. So what’s suddenly happened to change all that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, her mouth setting tightly.

  He gulped back the brandy and demanded another. She brought the bottle and he poured himself an enormous measure. As he stared down at the drink, more tears blurred his vision, and his voice shook with emotion.

  ‘There’s someone else,’ he said. ‘You’ve met someone else.’

  ‘I haven’t. It’s just that I don’t want to carry on making love to someone I’m not in love with.’

  Anger crept into his voice. ‘In these scenarios, there’s always someone else. The reason you’ve given me is ... well, it’s pathetic. There must be another bloke.’

  He gulped back another mouthful of brandy, his head now reeling from the drink and the bad news.

  Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way. There is someone I’ve known for thirty years. Before I met Colin. And I always fancied this person. I still do. I had a do here last Saturday, and he stayed the night. But he slept in the spare room. And I promise you nothing happened. And perhaps nothing will. It’s complicated. He’s having an affair with a woman who’s married.’

  ‘Oh, this gets better and better,’ Graham shouted, then took a swift gulp of brandy. ‘And you had a do last Saturday. Barbecue, was it? And I expect you invited all your friends round. Most of those we saw tonight. So why wasn’t I invited?’

  ‘I feel guilty - so guilty - about that. But it wasn’t possible to invite you as well.’

  ‘You mean, as well as this other bloke.’

  Almost imperceptibly, she nodded her head.

  ‘Can you remember the Friday before your do, by any chance? You came round to my place for dinner. And we made love afterwards.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I really didn’t want to hurt you. I like you. But I just can’t go on with it anymore.’

  He knocked back more brandy. By now he was slurring and feeling numb from the depression that had hit him. They talked for another hour but found nothing new to say. Eventually, having drunk three-quarters of the brandy, he fell asleep on the sofa, dead to the world.

  He woke up at eleven in the morning, and rather than feeling weirdly disoriented from the hangover, and the fact that this was the first time he had slept in her spare room, he knew immediately where he was and what had happened. His trousers and jacket lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, but he was still wearing his dress shirt. Then he happened to look out the window into the back garden, and the anger rose in his throat like bile. He let out the worst obscenities he could think of, cursing over and over, disgusted by what he had seen.

  Pauline came running in from the garden, saying, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘What’s wrong,’ he yelled indignantly. ‘I fell in love with you and my world is falling apart. And what do you do? You stand out in the garden practising your golf swing. That’s priceless. A real George-fucking-Bush moment.’

  Then the anger left him feeling weak, and he sobbed again. ‘I’m sorry. It made me angry. It’s just that I fell in love with you.’

  She sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you, I really didn’t. I’d still like to be your friend. But if your not in love with someone....’

  ‘You can’t force them to love you,’ he finished for her.

  And now he knew the horrible truth. It was over. There was no going back now, no second chance or “Let’s try again” as in a crumbling marriage. When he got home he flaked out on his bed and sobbed again, and spent most of the afternoon going over and over what was said. Eventually, he dragged himself to his feet and telephoned Pauline, leaving a message on her answerphone.

  ‘I’d sooner be your close friend than lose you altogether,’ he said ‘Maybe we could have a picnic at the seaside. No strings attached. Ring me.’

  Fifty - Two

  Ted almost had
second thoughts as he walked along Warwick Park, looking for Donald’s house. But the heart pounding fear and tingling nervousness he felt seemed so dangerously attractive. Besides, he had already telephoned Donald, who was expecting him. There was no turning back now.

  Glancing nervously around, he rang the doorbell. His friend must have been waiting impatiently for his arrival, because the door was thrown open almost immediately. He gave Ted a welcoming grin.

  ‘At last, dear boy! I thought this day would never come. Well, don’t just stand there. Come in.’

  As Ted stepped inside, Donald stifled a giggle.

  ‘What are you laughing at?

  Donald laughed aloud. ‘You silly boy. You’re wearing your uniform. I appreciate the gesture, Ted. But I was only joking.’

  ***

  Graham spent the whole of Monday brooding, needing answers to questions he had not asked Pauline, either because he was too drunk or too distraught. He made up his mind he would go and see her in the early evening. He knew she went line dancing every Monday night and he could catch her just before she left. He decided not to telephone in advance, in case she put him off coming.

  Because it was warm and sunny, her front door was wide open and she saw him arriving and came out to meet him. She gave him a weak smile, wondering what he wanted.

  ‘I’ve come round to talk about yesterday,’ he said. ‘Everything was a haze and a nightmare. Now I’ve had time to think, there are things I need to get clear in my mind. I don’t think I can move on unless I have answers.’

  She invited him into the kitchen and he sat on one of the breakfast bar stools while she made him coffee.

  ‘Saturday night,’ he began. ‘Sunday morning, the alcohol had really hit me. But I can vaguely remember when I asked you about the early days in our relationship, that you may have said something like you supposed it was lust on your part. So when did you fall out of lust with me?’

  She looked flustered as she fidgeted with the coffee mug. ‘Well, not really lust. I liked you. I still do. But I don’t feel I want to spend the rest of my life with you. It had to stop sometime. It couldn’t have gone on any longer. Not from my point of view.’