‘Cheers.’
He knocks his own glass against that of Clive Wilson and then takes a drink.
‘I might as well come straight to the point, Clive. I’m resigning, okay.’
‘What do you mean “okay”? It’s not okay with me. I told you, these things take time and this one’s a bit tricky. However, I can now see some light at the end of the tunnel. I’m pretty sure that Yvette is going to be transferred.’
‘Is that what she wants?’
Clive Wilson laughs out loud. ‘What’s it got to do with what she wants? It’s better for everyone if she moves on. It’s a sort of sideways shift, with a more senior title, and the girl seems okay about it. This might happen next week, and then we can see about your coming back. To tell you the truth, I could really use you around the place at the moment. It’s a bloody nightmare trying to understand all this new red tape baloney.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, which he unfolds. ‘Listen to this. I just got this email directive saying that as service providers, we have to “recognise the needs of diverse communities and provide facilities that are genuinely multicultural, being aware that different facilities might be needed for people with specific religious, cultural, or dietary needs”. All this rubbish just in case I start getting hassle from a one-legged Muslim who likes burgers and feels like the council isn’t paying enough attention to his needs?’ He tosses the piece of paper on to the table. ‘What am I supposed to do with garbage like this?’
‘I’ve got no idea, Clive.’
‘Nobody really understands this guff, except you that is.’
‘Well, that’s not quite true, but I still think that I should resign.’
‘Are you thinking of your pension? You can only lose it if you get fired and that’s not going to happen.’
‘I’m thinking of what’s best for me.’
Clive Wilson picks up the email and folds it back into his pocket, and then he takes a long swig of his beer. ‘I don’t know what to say. Except, of course, you’ve blindsided me. What are you going to do?’
‘I’ve no idea, but I’ll think of something.’
‘Are you going to write that book of yours?’
He laughs now. ‘I don’t think so, Clive.’ He stands and points to Clive’s glass. ‘Another one?’
‘I’ll have another one. Why not?’ Clive Wilson hands him the empty glass. ‘But you are going to stay in the business?’
‘Social work?’ He smiles. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to do something different with my life. You know, before it all gets a bit monotonous and predictable.’
‘You mean like my life?’
He continues to smile, and he notices that Clive Wilson is looking perplexed.
‘So you think your life is monotonous, do you, Clive?’
‘Like watching bloody paint dry. Sometimes I think I should go out and get myself a young bird. Put a bit of spice back into things.’
‘And you think that’ll do the trick?’
‘Can’t hurt, can it?’
He stares at the computer screen and scrolls down the list of flats to rent in his area of west London, beginning with the three-bedroom flats, his thinking being that he can set up an office while he and Laurie can each have a bedroom of their own. The problem is the price of renting in London, which, as he feared, seems to have gone up significantly since he signed the lease for this one-bedroom flat. His rent is hardly cheap, but three years ago he was more concerned with the trauma of the break-up than he was with money. However, after a miserable week in the Travelodge, during which time it became clear that Annabelle was serious and had no intention of changing her mind, he convinced himself that this was an unexpected opportunity to begin anew, and he might as well seize it and pay the exorbitant rent. The recently decorated flat smelt of paint, and there were dustballs in the corner, and bits of sandpaper and twiglets of electrical wiring on the floor that the workmen had left behind. However, the space was his for him to reinvent himself as he saw fit, and although he remained somewhat confused and hurt by Annabelle’s rejection of him, he eventually made peace with his situation. But having his son move in with him is hardly a new adventure, more like an obligation that he knows he should fulfil, but without a job he is having difficulty figuring out how he can realistically make this work.
He quickly accepts the fact that he will most likely have to set up a work-station in his bedroom, and he scrolls down to the two-bedroom flats. While they are significantly cheaper, they are still prohibitively expensive and it occurs to him that maybe he should have tried to negotiate some kind of pay-off deal with Clive Wilson. However, given the manner in which they left things, it is now highly unlikely that his former boss would be receptive to any more overtures from him. He took Clive Wilson’s pint glass and crossed to the bar, where he ordered a lager. Once the barman had pulled the pint, and he had paid for it and received his change, he carried the pint of lager back to Clive Wilson and placed it on the table before him.
‘Where’s yours, Keith?’
He looked down at Clive Wilson. ‘So you’re really sorry that I’m leaving, are you, Clive?’
‘I told you, nobody understands all this gobbledy-gook about brand-repositioning better than you do. The new regulations make no sense, and the language is impossible. Anyhow, there’s still time for you to reconsider.’
‘Let me ask you, Clive. Do you know how to spell “hypocrite”? It’s not a hard question.’ Clive Wilson looked up at him with his hand eagerly gripping his new pint of beer. ‘Pride yourself on running a tight ship, do you? Well you need to look around yourself a bit for I’m not the only one who thinks that you’re a sad tosser. That’s t-o-s-s-e-r in case you’re still struggling with “hypocrite”. They’re both applicable.’
He turned and left before Clive Wilson could reply, but as he pushed his way through the crowd of briefcase-wielding after-work drinkers he knew that at least he’d done the decent thing and bought his boss a pint.
As he left the pub he saw a bus approaching, so he quickly dashed across the street to the stop outside the West London Internet Call Centre, a place that seemed to specialise in calls to Somalia, Bangladesh, or Pakistan. The girl ahead of him in the bus queue was wearing flip-flops as opposed to pumps. He remembers Yvette telling him that in London women’s feet get too dirty and calloused in flip-flops, but this girl, who was listening to some kind of bhangra music on her iPhone, seemed cheerfully oblivious to this fact. As the doors to the bus concertinaed open, and the line began to shuffle forward, he realised that for the first time since he left Bristol he was now officially unemployed.
He googles another rental agency and begins to scroll down their list of flats, but price remains the problem. Now that he no longer has a job, he will have to think again about this plan of Laurie moving in, for even large one-bedrooms appear to be beyond his pocket. Moving further out of London doesn’t appeal, for he has always been scornful of the suburbs and the commuting life, but at the moment the idea of knuckling down and getting another job is also unappealing. He should really start looking at social work job listings online, but he knows that he will be immediately pigeon-holed as an expert on inner city black problems, and be expected to spew sound bites to the media about how gun and knife violence are not black crimes any more than paedophilia is a white crime. However, when he points out to the press that Bangladeshis in Tower Hamlets or white gangs in Essex are committing exactly the same gun and knife crimes, he will immediately be viewed as part of the problem itself. Some years ago, shortly after they left Birmingham and moved to London, he suffered his first, and only, instance of media backlash when he stood up at a national conference on drug trafficking and pointed out that a young teenager who had £10,000 in his pocket should not be liable to be arrested by the police, and have charges pressed against him, unless there was some direct evidence of criminal wrongdoing. Apparently, according to the Daily Mail, this made him an apologist for drug-deali
ng. Without even looking at the jobs that are available he knows that with his experience and complexion, and given the national push towards more racially polarised community monitoring, he will undoubtedly find it hard to land a job that doesn’t place him in the firing line of the press on race issues. What he finds even more galling is the fact that even the most senior job in this area is likely to pay him less than he was earning as an executive policy-maker with the local authority under Clive bloody Wilson.
The ringing of the doorbell interrupts the gentle clatter of the keyboard as he once again changes the parameters of his flat search. He glances at his watch and can see that it is going up for ten o’clock. He picks up his mobile phone from the messy desktop and makes sure that nobody has been trying to get hold of him, but as he does so the discordant sound of the doorbell again cuts through the silence and so he quickly grabs a tracksuit top and makes his way downstairs. Lesley stands before him with her hands pushed deep into the pockets of her winter coat.
‘I’m sorry, I know I should have called. If this isn’t a good time then we can always speak in the morning.’
He stands to one side and smiles in an attempt to disguise his surprise. ‘It’s fine. Come on in. I’m just playing about on the computer.’
He closes the main door behind them and decides that whoever gave her his phone number must have also given her his address. Lesley doesn’t look distressed, which might excuse her behaviour. In fact, there is an air of impatience about her manner, which leads him to believe that they are about to have a confrontation of some kind. But does he truly care? He knows that some friendships cannot be dissolved little by little, they require an indelicate blow. She follows him upstairs and into his flat, where he takes her coat and hangs it on the solitary hook in the cramped entrance hall. He then ushers her into the living room and encourages her to take a seat on the sofa, while he crosses to the computer and closes down the open window. He assumes that she will not be staying for long so he does not log off. He offers Lesley a glass of wine, but even before she can formulate an answer he moves back in front of her and goes into the kitchen where he pours them both a glass of the only wine he has left, a somewhat overpowering Australian Chardonnay. Before he shuts the fridge, he makes a note that there are two more bottles lying on the bottom shelf, in addition to the one he has just returned to the holder behind the door. He carries the two glasses back into the living room and decides not to apologise for the wine in case it sounds as though he is being pretentious. Instead he just passes Lesley a glass and then takes a seat opposite her.
‘So,’ she begins, having taken a sip of her wine. ‘You’ve done it then.’
‘Well, I suppose he told you.’
‘Oh yes, and everybody else. He said you really lost it. Black rage.’ She takes another sip of wine. ‘Well, he didn’t actually use that term, but that was what he was getting at. You know, where you get all loud and illogical and he’s the calming paternal figure.’
He starts to laugh. ‘And you believed him? I mean, do I look like I’m out of control?’ He opens his arms and gestures, although he is careful not to spill his wine. ‘Do I look like some nutter who’s about to push somebody off a tube platform?’
‘You could have calmed down, I suppose.’
‘Yes, and I could have held up Lloyds Bank this afternoon with a sawn-off shotgun but it’s just not me, is it? That’s the point. He says something and everybody suspends disbelief and goes along with it? Makes me feel glad I jacked it in.’
‘I never said I believed him. In fact, most people haven’t got any time for him, but you already know this. However, the problem is, Keith, I wish you’d have spoken with me first. Given me a chance to let you know what was going on.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ He stands and crosses to the kitchen where he removes the bottle of Chardonnay from the door of the fridge. He once again takes up his seat and pours himself a splash more, before putting the wine down on the floor to the side of his chair. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Did he tell you that Yvette’s taking the matter to a tribunal?’ She pauses. ‘No, I didn’t think so.’
‘I thought she was getting promoted.’
‘Shunted to one side, and she didn’t like it and so she’s been threatening to go to a tribunal, which means it will probably be all over the papers.’ Again she pauses. ‘He didn’t tell you, did he?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Look Keith, what it means is that your resigning is irrelevant in terms of bringing an end to things. In fact, it’s probably about to kick off for real now.’
‘For Christ’s sake, who told her to go to a tribunal? Her lawyer, I suppose.’
‘I can’t help you there, but you might have been better sticking with the job and going head to head with her, rather than throwing in your cards now. It makes you look weak.’
‘Weak? Guilty more like. As though I’m running away from something.’
‘I do wish you had talked with me first.’ She holds up her glass and he reaches to the floor and picks up the bottle and pours her a refill. ‘Look, am I keeping you from something? Or someone?’
‘No, I told you, I was just doing some stuff on the computer.’
She kicks off her shoes and tucks her legs up underneath her on the sofa. He watches as she swirls the wine around in the glass, and for a moment he worries that she might smell the bouquet and pronounce her verdict.
‘You know, it’s still possible for someone to have a word with Yvette.’
‘You mean for you to have a word with Yvette?’
‘I really don’t think she’s getting sensible advice. To go to a tribunal isn’t good for you, but it might not be good for her either. She’s been offered a pay rise and promotion, but I imagine her lawyer is just focused on the harassment issue and dangling some imaginary big cash settlement in front of her. It’s such bullshit.’ She sips at her wine and then looks up at him. ‘Would you like me to talk to her?’
He can hear the BBC morning news. Even before he opens his eyes he realises that he must have fallen asleep with the television set on. He knows that in all likelihood he is on the sofa for he has no television in his bedroom. His mouth is dry, and tastes like a discarded ashtray. He tries to licks his lips but he has no saliva. He rubs his eyes and then sits upright. The light bulb in the desk lamp is shining directly in his face. On the coffee table are two empty glasses of wine and an empty bottle lies on its side on the floor. There is no sign of Lesley, and he has only a vague recollection of her leaving the flat. He does, however, remember her asking him if he had any regrets about what had happened between them in the New Forest. He had seen this question coming for some time, but when it arrived he still had no carefully constructed answer with which to defuse the situation. He need not have worried for Lesley didn’t give him an opening to answer. ‘You see,’ she insisted, ‘I’ve never regretted acting along the lines of how I feel. I suppose it’s only when I don’t act that I regret it.’ He remembers looking at her and thinking that of course she has no regrets because she had nothing to lose. He on the other hand has plenty of regrets for he should have been responsible not only to his wife’s feelings and her dignity, but to her life, to her journey, to the fact that he had met her parents, and it was not possible for him to simply pat himself on the back and prioritise being in tune with his feelings over his sense of responsibility. Of course he had regrets about what had happened between them, which is why he eventually blurted it all out to Annabelle, although a part of him still can’t understand why such a brief and inconsequential act of infidelity should have mattered so much to her. Lesley was not a threat to their marriage. It was a mistake, and Annabelle was not being abandoned, and they were not trapped in a sexless marriage. For Christ’s sake, the whole thing meant nothing. Their marriage may not have packed the passion and the lust that it once did, but it wasn’t broke and wasn’t his confession a testament to this? He had no desire to compartmentalise at his wife’s ex
pense, for there were already too many secrets hanging over his life, and so he did the decent thing and he admitted his guilt, but still she jettisoned him. Jesus, it didn’t seem fair. After all, he had embraced the myth that one person was all that he needed, and he had tried to be loyal to the myth, to live by it, and to accept the notion of the myth as the basis of his life, and it had, if truth be told, given him many rewards. But by betraying it just one solitary time, everything had collapsed and this woman wanted to know if he had regrets? Sitting with him in a one-bedroom rented flat on a cheap sofa drinking bad wine, she seriously wanted to know if he had regrets? He remembers drifting into the kitchen and opening another bottle of dodgy Australian Chardonnay, and then avoiding her questions, and physically keeping his distance from her, but the tension of the evening, and endless glasses of wine must have eventually taken a toll for he still has only a hazy memory of her leaving. But leave she did, and if he remembers correctly she again stressed, at least once, that she might be able to talk to Yvette, but by this stage he didn’t give a damn. By the time he poured the final drop of wine from the last bottle, he couldn’t care less about a potential tribunal, or a newspaper scandal, or his being sacked, or the withholding of his pension. He no longer cared about the whole pantomime of his fancy job and the consequences of his so-called inappropriate behaviour. None of it held any interest for him. He remembers looking at a bleary-eyed Lesley, her face twisted with righteous concern, and thinking, let them do with him what they wish. Let them make an example of him, humiliate him, who cares, he was sick of it all. And yes, he did have regrets, especially staring at her podgy face. He regretted going to the conference, he regretted going to the local pub in the forest with her, he regretted the quick fumble, he regretted everything. Was that clear enough?
By nine o’clock he has finished tidying up the flat and he has packed a bag. Outside he can hear a helicopter buzzing overhead like an intoxicated insect, and he imagines that there must be a drug bust on the local council estate, either that or there is an appalling traffic snarl-up at some junction, but what’s new? These days, nobody in London ever gets anywhere on time. The laundry has been done, the bathroom and kitchen have been cleaned, the sofa straightened out, and all his papers and bills neatly filed and arranged. What remains to be organised has been simply pushed into a drawer and out of sight. He is not sure how long he will be gone, but it is important to him that he comes back to a neat place. The sink is full of soapy water, but as he searches for stray items to wash he realises that there is only an odd cup and a single glass left to take care of and then he will be ready. He pulls out the plug and listens to the water spiralling away. An hour ago, as he still lay on the sofa piecing together the night before, Laurie had called and asked if he should come round to see him. He had told his son that he was more than welcome to do so if he wished, and that he shouldn’t feel that he had to ask, but then Laurie confessed that he didn’t really have much to say at present, and he was sorry for all the trouble and worry that he was causing. Maybe they could do something later in the week? He found himself listening to his son’s suggestion, and then saying ‘sure’, like some gum-chewing cowboy from the movies. ‘Sure, Laurie.’ His son seemed relieved, and he promised to call back in a day or two, but he didn’t bother to tell Laurie that he would be gone. He decided that once he knew how long he was likely to be away then he would phone Laurie and set something up. He tears off some sheets of paper towel and begins to wipe out the sink where the suds have gathered. Then, having disposed of the wet paper, he crosses to the fridge and makes sure that the ice-making machine is turned off. He will actually call Laurie once he gets to his father’s house, for there is no reason at all why he should leave things up in the air for a minute longer than is necessary. He will speak to Laurie, and figure out what his son would like to do. At the very least, he owes his son the courtesy of attempting to play the part. He fully understands that Annabelle has probably encouraged Laurie to call him, but unless Laurie wanted to speak with his father then he wouldn’t have picked up the phone. In this sense, Laurie has made the decision by himself. His son called him, and so he will set up something specific with him. During the past three years there have already been too many casual plans made, and too many casual plans broken, and as the grown-up it is his responsibility to change this pattern of behaviour between them.
In the Falling Snow Page 24