by Louise Kean
‘What’s wrong, my love?’ Cagney asked, lying naked beside his wife, stroking the space between her shoulder blades, running a finger down her spine to her perfect arse.
‘Why would you want to leave?’ she asked, incredulous.
Cagney had jumped on to his knees, and hollered, ‘To live a little! To taste life! To be beaten and bruised by experience, but to live! To scream from the top of a tall tree, and run naked into a warm Turkish sea!’ He had laughed out loud, throwing back his head, hammering his chest with his fists in a glorious hysteria.
‘You’re mad, Cagney,’ she said, closing her eyes.
‘Well, you married me, Mrs James!’ Cagney laughed and tried to roll her over to him, for a kiss.
But instead she pulled the covers tight to her chin, closed her eyes, and announced to the pillow, ‘Let’s see how we feel in a year. We might have a baby by then …’
This was the point, lying on his back, facing a cracked ceiling, that Cagney realised he barely knew the woman next to him, and yet he had just bound them together for life. Gracie James, née Janowitz, was a stranger to him. He hadn’t thought to check that they wanted the same things.
The next morning they woke early in each other’s arms, twisted in the night like two stockings in the wash, coming together in spite of themselves. Cagney had tenderly kissed his new wife, and silenced the voice of quiet dread lurking in the back of his head. He rolled Gracie on top of him, and tasted her small pointed breasts, and waited for an erection that didn’t come. His penis sat sadly on his balls, like a guest to a party who received an invitation by mistake, standing alone in the middle of the room, spoiling everybody’s fun. His flaccid penis ruined their night, every night. Cagney, determined to overlook this temporary setback, attempted to surprise both Gracie and his member into action by grabbing them both simultaneously, one with each hand, on the spur of the moment. It made no difference. Any hint at rigidity was deflated by Gracie’s wide-eyed curiosity.
‘Do you think you’ll be able to get an erection this time, Cagney? Because I’ve just given myself a pedicure, and I don’t want to risk smudging it for nothing …’
Cagney really had felt like nothing that day. A couple more botched attempts over the next weeks had petered out, and by the end of their second month as man and wife, Cagney and Gracie had nothing left to say to each other.
Cagney would venture the occasional, ‘How are you, my darling?’ on his arrival home from work.
‘Fine,’ Gracie would acknowledge, in her annoyingly quiet whispery tone, with a vacant smile that betrayed her utter disinterest. Gracie just wanted to be married. Cagney, in the wrong place, and at the wrong time, had asked the wrong lady. Three months of guilt followed. Cagney felt he had only himself to blame. He hadn’t bothered getting to know his new wife, and now he deserved to live with the consequences. Thankfully for them both, Gracie wanted a baby, and as Cagney’s little soldier was proving so unobliging, and she heard the ticking of her biological clock, she took matters firmly into her own hands. Gracie needed an erect and ejaculating penis, and found it, conveniently, at the bottom of the garden where only the fairies are supposed to live. In this case, at the bottom of Cagney and Gracie’s garden lived Brian, the gardener and handyman for the barracks, in a large brick-built outhouse, which doubled up as a tool shed. Gracie had merely to skip down the garden path to find what she needed.
Cagney had almost named it relief the day he returned to his house for a surprise lunch – trying so desperately to make an effort with his wife that he plotted out potential topics for discussion during the morning to use during their lunchtime conversation – to see a naked back pressed up against the dirt-smeared shed window. A mass of ice-blonde hair was jumping off creamy white shoulders that he knew to be his wife’s. Gracie had left for her mother’s that evening, and Cagney had left the army the following month. Brian the gardener was happy to be named in the divorce proceedings, and the paperwork had come through by Christmas …
Cagney checks his crotch again to confirm what he already knows – his erection has wilted as if Gracie were sitting next to him in the BMW, smiling politely, naming the world ‘fine’ and anything or anybody with any character ‘mad’.
He watches Sophia Young move elegantly back into the house, pulling off her gardening gloves finger by finger, with a look of quiet concentration on her face. ‘You are a beauty,’ Cagney whispers to himself, at which point his phone rings. Checking the number, he flips it open.
‘Iuan.’
‘Boss!’
‘What?’
‘I thought I might reorganise the files.’
‘No.’
‘I could put them in date order.’
‘They are already in alphabetical order, Iuan.’
‘Ahhh, yes, but you see, boss, if they were in date order –’
‘We’d never be able to find anything?’
‘Not if we also kept a spreadsheet on the computer with an alphabetical listing of the clients matched to their details …’
‘Iuan, shut up. Here are my questions: number one, have you already touched the files? Number two, have you touched the computer? Number three, has anybody actually called with any business, and number four, if somebody did call, did you take their name and number?’
‘No. No. No. No. But …’
Cagney opens his mouth to interrupt but is instead frozen by a finger tapping elegantly on his driver’s side window. He turns and smiles as politely as he can, flipping the phone shut to Iuan’s muffled protestations. His finger hovers above the button that will automatically lower his window. He jabs at it, and the window hisses open.
‘Can I help you?’ Cagney looks with curiosity at Sophia Young, his face a snapshot of sincerity.
‘I think the more pressing question is, can I help you, sir? Given that you have been watching me all morning. You are not going to deny it, I hope. And before you say a word, or move a muscle, I want to let you know that I have my mobile phone set to 999, I have already texted the number plate of your car to my sister, and given her your full description. If I press this button just once I shall be speaking directly with the police. Not that I believe for a second you are a violent man, but I am warning you none the less. Don’t do anything silly. Now, I assume my husband hired you?’
‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know what you are talking about. I was just parked here –’
‘Oh, please, don’t embarrass us both. You certainly aren’t the first man he has paid to sit and spy on me all day, and you won’t be the last. Now admit it, Sheldon hired you, didn’t he?’
Sophia gracefully lifts a strand of hair away from her face and tucks it behind her ear. Her eyes, this close to Cagney, staring straight at him, are clear and bright, the colour of a plunge pool in the middle of the Alps. She places both hands on her small hips, and eyes him accusingly.
‘Well?’ she says evenly.
‘I’m sorry, miss, I really don’t have a clue what you are talking about. I just pulled over to make some calls, and –’
‘Sheldon is having me watched because he thinks I am having an affair with the handyman, I already know that. It’s not true, of course, but his money makes him paranoid.’
Cagney sums up Sophia evenly. Who is fooling who here? How much does she really know? And what must that hair smell like, clean and fresh, after hours spent in the garden?
Cagney juts out his hand to be shaken. ‘Cagney James,’ he says firmly.
Sophia doesn’t move, ignoring his hand, but says, ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr James?’ before turning and walking back towards her house.
Cagney leaves his car and adopts a fast pace, refusing to jog, but still trying to keep sight of Sophia Young as she marches round the back of the house. He follows, and turning the corner, Cagney finds himself in a vast riot of a courtyard filled with marble and terracotta pots. Shovels lie clumsily on the stone floor or are propped against walls, and half-empty bags of all-purpose compost
spill their contents everywhere. Cagney watches where he treads. A farmhouse door stands open and Cagney pokes his head round it into a kitchen the size of his entire flat. It looks sharp and clean and impeccably modern. All surfaces are utterly bare, and two huge glass vases hold magnificent white lilies that fill a room even this big with a heady scent. Sophia Young is nowhere to be seen, but then she appears through a doorway to Cagney’s left. She has discarded her wellies, and is barefoot, and Cagney notices the pale pink splashes of colour on her slim toes. She moves gracefully to the kettle, and fills it with a jug of filtered water retrieved from a double-fronted Smeg fridge.
Cagney eyes the floor nervously. It is so clean it sparkles, and he worries about the soles of his shoes, and the compost he has just walked through.
‘Please don’t worry about your shoes, Mr James. The cleaner comes every morning; it will give her something to do if somebody makes a mess.’
Cagney stares at Sophia Young’s back and wonders how she knew.
‘Besides, the compost is all my fault – I am in the middle of moving my delphiniums. Do you know a lot about gardening, Mr James?’
‘Nothing. Other than it’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.’
‘Quite right too. Time was I didn’t know the difference between a poppy and a pansy, but I thought it prudent to learn. With a garden that big, and nothing else to do, it seemed wise to use it to keep myself entertained. But I do worry that it is turning me into an old woman before my time. I mean, most girls my age go clubbing and get drunk, and I am planting snowdrops and daffodils in time for spring.’ Sophia Young spins around to face Cagney and smiles a brilliant smile.
Cagney inhales sharply.
‘But then I have never been one for getting drunk anyway. I have always thought girls who drink let themselves down socially. I know that must sound old-fashioned, but my gardening doesn’t make me say stupid things, or be sick, or have a hangover, so the way I see it, they may think they are having more fun, but I laugh last. And women who drink, well, they always seem so boisterous …’
Cagney’s mind is whirring. He has a feeling he is being played like an old guitar, but he doesn’t know how to stop it, and he isn’t sure he wants to. Sophia Young stands staring at him from the other side of the kitchen, as her fingertips dance on the kitchen surfaces and the mugs she has magicked out of a cupboard, and the tea bags she drops into them, all the while looking straight at him.
‘Do sit down,’ she says firmly, but with a smile.
Cagney walks as lightly as he can to a Philippe Starck chair and sits as comfortably as the moulded perspex seat allows.
‘I know what you must be thinking – why daffodils, for goodness’ sake? It might not be grand, but I want the garden to be simple next year, but still riotous with colour. Not dainty or fussy – bold … and bright! I’m planting crocuses too. I know it’s absurd! And I am sure I will get some looks from the old busybodies around here, but I don’t care. Sugar?’
‘I’m sweet enough.’
‘Is soy milk OK? We switched months ago, because of Sheldon’s blood pressure. I actually prefer it now, to skimmed milk at least. It is very good for you, Mr James. It fights all kinds of disease.’ Sophia widens her eyes as she smiles to encourage him like a child.
‘If you soy so,’ Cagney hears himself saying. He knows that, in any other company, he would have gone without rather than drink anything with soy in it … more than that, he would have got up and walked out. Instead he makes a ‘word’ joke. Did he leave his shame in the car?
‘So …’ Sophia Young walks elegantly across her kitchen and places Cagney’s tea on a Conran coaster, before moving behind him and sitting herself at the top of the table, so that Cagney has to push back his precarious plastic chair and shift himself uncomfortably around to face her, while still trying to appear relaxed. ‘What does Sheldon want from you, Mr James? Does he think you might catch me in the act? Do you have a camera ready to snap snap snap me being a naughty girl?’
Sophia Young’s lips turn up at the ends into a slight smile. Cagney feels something stiffen. Sophia flicks her hair, places her elbow languidly on the table, and cups her chin, focusing entirely on Cagney in a swirl of attentive glamour that he is starting to find intoxicating.
‘The problem for you, Mr James, and for Sheldon too, who wants rid of me now I know, is that I am just not that naughty a girl …’
Cagney crosses his legs. Sophia’s eyes don’t leave his.
‘I mean, we all want to be naughty, sometimes, but I don’t get the opportunity. I love Sheldon, I really do, but he has lost all interest in me, Mr James. I can’t remember the last time we were … together, if you understand … ?’
Sophia widens her eyes at Cagney, who nods once.
‘I mean, I’m sure that isn’t the story he has given you. You have had “the handyman story”, as ridiculous as it is. But, Mr James, you should meet our handyman – he is a lovely boy, but even the idea that I might let him … touch me … like that …’ Sophia lowers her eyes, and raises them again, looking at Cagney from below pale eyelids and long thin clean eyelashes. ‘He is just a boy, Mr James. Cagney.’ Sophia reaches over with her right hand and runs a line along the back of Cagney’s hand with her index finger.
‘You’re not exactly mutton,’ Cagney says, in an even tone.
‘I know, I know,’ Sophia smiles, and removes her finger. ‘But I don’t want to play with boys my own age, Mr James. I like real men …’
Sophia smiles at Cagney, and Cagney smiles back. Sophia giggles lightly.
‘I wonder how many women have fallen victim to that smile, Mr James,’ she whispers as she leans forward. There are mere inches between their faces.
A spade crashes noisily in the courtyard, and Cagney jumps in his plastic chair, which slides to the right on the shiny floor, and he jerks forward to stay upright, slamming the table with his thighs, sending his tea flying in the air, raining down on his lap in hot splashes.
‘Fuck fuck fuck!’ Cagney jumps up and down, trying to pull his trousers away from his crotch, as Sophia springs up and unbuckles his belt. ‘What the hell?’ Cagney looks down at her nimble fingers, aghast.
‘It’ll burn and stain, take them off,’ Sophia orders, as she whips his trousers down to his ankles.
Cagney looks at his boxer shorts in horror, but thankfully the tea, although burning his thighs, has cooled his ardour. He breathes three times in quick succession.
‘Take them off!’ Sophia demands again, but this time more forcefully, and Cagney complies. ‘Now take off your shoes.’
‘Why?’ Cagney demands, coming to his senses. She is playing him for a fool. Blonde manipulation – he should have seen it a mile away!
‘Because you need to go upstairs and clean up and dry off, and I’ll bring your trousers up to you when I’ve got the stain out.’
‘Nope, I’ll be fine. Just give me my trousers back.’
‘Mr James, don’t be ridiculous. Go upstairs and I will sort it out.’
‘It is you who is being ridiculous if you think I am going anywhere in this house without my trousers on!’
‘But I am staying here, you arrogant fool – what do you think is going to happen? And I resent your implication. I am a married woman!’ Sophia has raised her voice but Cagney still thinks he can detect a suppressed smile in her tone. She is playing with him, the way she has played with all the men that Sheldon has sent here before him.
‘You weren’t so married five minutes ago, angel, when you were batting those icy blues at me and stroking my hand.’
Sophia Young stops suddenly, and her face drops. Cagney sees her eyes glaze, and fill with water. Oh shit, she’s going to cry. She is good.
‘Here, take them!’ Cagney lets go of the trouser leg he was grasping on to.
Sophia’s perfectly pink lower lip starts to tremble.
‘Where do I go? What room, what room?’
Sophia Young takes a breath, and smoothes
herself down, regaining her composure, and Cagney breathes a sigh of relief.
‘Up one flight of stairs, the second door on the right, the master bedroom, you’ll find a pair of Sheldon’s jogging trousers on the side of the bed, you can slip those on until these are dry.’
‘Right. OK. Thanks very much.’
Cagney hurries out of the kitchen, round a corner and another corner and up a vast flight of stairs, past a piano in a hallway to the second door on the right, into a huge cold grey bedroom. The steely wash is broken by a single fuchsia cushion in the middle of the bed, which sits in the centre of the room, raised on a platform. His eyes scan the room for jogging trousers, but it is spotless; there are no clothes anywhere. Lifeless, soulless, joyless. Cagney’s eyes dart from a grey leather armchair and back to the bed again, to an antique table by some French doors, to a distressed armoire, but he sees nothing resembling trousers, or even a dressing gown. He hears the sound of feet moving quickly down the corridor and Sophia Young bursts into the room.
‘I can’t find any trousers.’
‘You have to get out!’ Sophia stage-whispers through clenched teeth, moving towards him and spinning him round.
‘What? Why? I will, but I can’t find any trousers …’
‘Now! You have to leave now!’
‘What? Why?’
‘Sheldon is home. He can’t see you up here with no trousers! You have to leave.’
‘Bunny? Are you in the bath?’ a man’s voice calls up the stairs.
‘Yes, I’ve just got in. Pour me a glass of wine and bring it up, won’t you, Papa Bear?’
‘Papa Bear? Bunny? This house is twisted!’ Cagney looks appalled, but Sophia just utters a tiny shriek and pushes Cagney towards the French doors. ‘You have got to be joking! You want me to jump? Have you lost your mind, lady? Besides, Sheldon won’t be able to say anything, because he knows me, he paid me, he won’t be able to do anything without letting on to you that he has hired me!’
‘And you were supposed to let me give you a blow job, were you?’
Sophia’s eyes widen as if to say, ‘Explain that!’