Perfect Lives
Page 17
‘For Cato,’ I said, realising as soon as the words left my lips that perhaps it did seem a tad unhinged. I felt a gust of cold air as the children failed to close the garden door. ‘And let’s not forget,’ I added, grateful for the divine intervention of sudden inspiration, ‘it’s Ivan’s birthday in under a month …’
Simon clutched his jaw in both hands. ‘Ivan is having a new bike,’ he said. Ivan, bless him, wrapped his arms around his father’s knees. ‘I want a kitten, I want a kitten,’ he said. ‘Yeah,’ said Angus, hands on holsters and cowboy hat askew, ‘and I’m having one too.’
After that Simon sulked for the rest of the weekend. He sat in that chair and brandished the remote control like a spray repellent.
I almost fell asleep when I took Ivan his hot chocolate. I lay upstairs in the children’s dark bedroom, sharing a pillow with my little boy, his breath sweet as clover, with the comforting steadiness of Angus’s breathing coming from the next bed. If it hadn’t been for the shrilling of television adverts through the floorboards it might have been one of those sublime moments of a life. My two healthy children and me, all breathing together like the sea. Instead, Ivan started moaning that he’d never get to sleep with that racket, which woke Angus, who had a tantrum when I told him to go straight back to sleep because I didn’t really feel like making further hot chocolate. ‘It’s not room service, you know’, and below the television audience laughed and laughed.
Downstairs, suffering my usual capitulation at the sight of Angus’s quivering baby blues, I began heating milk for more hot chocolate. As I reached for the whisk from the brown ceramic pot of utensils beside the cooker, Cato jumped on to the work surface and twined his tail around my arm.
‘While you were upstairs,’ he said in a stage whisper.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, you know how I hate to gossip,’ he said. Cato can look quite kittenish when he’s toying with something juicy. ‘The thing is,’ he said, rolling appealingly on to his side, ‘I just overheard Simon on the phone, and he was ordering a Sky Box for the television.’ The steak hammer swam into view. Cato appeared to be pointing to its wooden handle with the tip of his tail.
‘Enough,’ I cried. I grabbed the steak hammer from the brown pot.
‘Hundreds of channels!’ shrieked Cato as I swept from the room with the hammer in my hands.
Simon didn’t see the steak hammer because he was kneeling on the floor, scouring the television page of the newspaper. Before I had even opened my mouth, Simon turned round and looked me firmly in the eyes. In his hands was the remote control. He was pointing it at me. The room didn’t smell so bad any more and I noticed he’d lit a real fire with some logs that he must’ve bought from the Greek shop on his way home; there was something touching about how he’d managed to light a fire without disrupting his viewing pleasure.
For the split second that the remote was aimed at me, I felt myself turned to ice. ‘This is Simon,’ I thought, and shivered as I realised what was happening. ‘Simon’s trying to switch me off.’ Simon looked so handsome, and so warm, in his crumpled office trousers and rolled-up shirtsleeves, his wrists beautiful.
‘Why won’t you join me?’ he said. ‘I’m opening a nice bottle of cold white wine in the next break.’
‘Ugh,’ said Cato from the doorway. I’ve always loved Simon’s wrists and at that moment he was placing the remote control in my hand, as though passing into my care something as delicate as a baby bird.
Simon rolled over to settle another couple of logs on the fire. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘It’s about to be The Big Blue.’
‘Probably really embarrassing sex in it,’ sniffed Cato.
‘I’m sure you’ll like it,’ said Simon.
‘I mean,’ said Cato, ‘here is a man who spends more time watching sexual content on TV than actually having intercourse.’
‘Shush. How would you know a thing like that?’ I aimed a friendly poke at Cato with my toe.
Simon looked genuinely hurt. ‘Well, it’s a guess,’ he said. ‘I should think I’ve known you long enough to know what films you like …’
Simon turned back to catch the exciting denouement of his favourite property show and I returned the steak hammer to the pot in the kitchen. Cato, meanwhile, manoeuvred himself between Simon and the set. He was all large eyes and drooping whiskers, doing his best imitation of a rescue cat – before it’s been rescued. Or perhaps I’d kicked him harder than I’d intended.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered to Cato.
‘That’s all right,’ said Simon, turning to face me. ‘So, sit down, before it starts.’
Simon’s smile can be quite dazzling in certain lights and firelight’s the best.
‘Don’t fall for it, remember it’s the idiot box. It’s the life-sucker. Come back to the kitchen,’ said Cato, snaking in and out around my legs.
‘You don’t need the plug-in drug, the tube for boobies,’ he said, his tail slippery against the back of my knees.
‘Think of the radiation,’ he hissed.
But already the screen was filling with a face even more handsome than Simon’s.
‘Have I never explained about cultural imperialism and the western TV conglomerates?’ Cato screeched as Simon squeezed my hand.
‘Sshhh, Cato,’ I said, sinking into the sofa. Simon adjusted his arm so that my head rested on his shoulder. The fire crackled just enough to let me know it was there. Cato was glaring, quite rudely, at Simon but my eyes had filled with the sudden beauty of the screen so I wasn’t looking. I felt Simon kiss the top of my head.
‘Oh, ugh,’ said Cato. ‘I hope he gets a hairball.’
It wasn’t perfect: the house was a shambles, the volume of the film a bit louder than I would have liked, but the children would sleep through it. Angus and Ivan were growing into two fine boys. A little warm current of happiness ran through me. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.
Cato had started to sulk, sitting like a picket between me and the television. ‘You’re just as bad as the rest of them,’ he snarled. Then he yawned straight at me so I gave him a little nudge with the side of my foot, and I told him:
‘Cato, why don’t you go play with a mouse?’
Flick, flick.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For generously sharing time and expertise I would like to thank Stephen Carroll-Turner, Leszek Mozdzer, Anna Wloch and Jeremy Young. I am indebted to Nora Ephron for the words of Mary McCarthy taken from her coruscating play Imaginary Friends. Lennie Goodings and Ed Victor have been invaluable. I am grateful to Joanna Nelson, Claire Singers and Phil Manzanera and in particular to Charlie Gilmour for lending a hand. Lance and Esther Samson are an inspiration. David Gilmour should be cloned so that every crowded house might have one. Without his support and encouragement I would never find the space.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Polly Samson is the author of two story collections and two novels, most recently The Kindness, and has contributed lyrics to two Pink Floyd albums and two solo records from David Gilmour. She has been shortlisted for the Authors’ Club Best First Novel Award, the V.S. Pritchett Memorial Prize, and the Edge Hill Short Story Prize. Upon UK publication, Perfect Lives was named one of the best books of the year by the Sunday Times, the Evening Standard, the Spectator, and the Telegraph. Samson lives in Brighton.
ALSO BY POLLY SAMSON
Lying in Bed
Out of the Picture
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First published in Great Britain 2010
First U.S. edition 2016
© Polly Samson, 2010
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ISBN: HB: 978-1-63286-549-6
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