by Jon Teckman
I sat down on the step and rested my throbbing head in my hands. After what seemed like a lifetime, I heard the patter of excited feet and felt eager hands grabbing at me as Helen and Matthew, surprised to see me waiting for them, raced ahead of their mother to greet me. As I looked up, I heard the sharp scream, followed by the gut-wrenching sobs of my daughter and the maniacal giggling of my son who, while not used to seeing his father toothless and bleeding, was easily excited by blood and trouble.
Natasha heard the commotion and sprinted up the path, umbrella raised above her head, her face etched with the terror that only a mother can know: that the man on her front step whom she had assumed to be her husband was, in fact, a murderous, paedophiliac, Jehovah’s Witness off his face on Special Brew or crystal meth. She was relieved to see that the cause of her daughter’s alarm was only her husband sporting a face like a dentist’s dream.
‘What in God’s name happened to you?’ she asked, opening the door and pushing the kids into the house, then half-dragging me in after them. I mumbled something that was supposed to be ‘Bennett hit me’ but came out as ‘Mwwaahh mwah mwa’, which Natasha understood because she is my wife and not a taxi driver.
‘Bennett hit you?’ she reflected back with significantly better diction. I nodded. ‘But why? No – let me guess. Could it be because you took his new girlfriend out last week?’
‘Mwahh?’ I asked. (I’ll provide subtitles for those who find this hard to follow: ‘What?’) ‘Mwahh mwah mwa mwa?’ (‘What do you mean?’)
‘Well,’ said Natasha, stroking Helen’s hair to calm her, while holding Matthew back with one knee to stop him dabbling his fingers in my wound like a pre-school Doubting Thomas, ‘I’m no expert but I’d have thought that someone like Bennett might get upset if someone else took his newly acquired superstar girlfriend out for the day.’
‘Mwwahh?’ (‘What?’) I asked again. I wanted to ask, ‘How the hell did you know I took Olivia Finch out last week,’ but feared spraying my family like the audience at a Jackson Pollock sitting if I did.
Natasha ignored my question and carried on with her own line of enquiry. ‘Just as the wife of that someone might get a tad annoyed if their husband came home one night complaining about what a crappy day he’d had at the office when in fact he’d spent the afternoon at Lord’s with a piece of A-list Hollywood crumpet. Mightn’t she?’
I lowered my head in shame, allowing Matthew to jab an inquisitive finger into my mouth.
‘Look, Mummy, blood!’ he announced, holding up a damp red fingertip for Natasha’s inspection.
‘Go and wash it off, dear,’ Natasha said. She was still holding the sobbing Helen closely to her. ‘Mightn’t she?’ she repeated.
‘Mwah,’ (‘Yes’) I replied quietly into my napkin, head bowed like a guilty schoolboy.
‘I don’t know what the hell is going on, Joe, but if Bennett hadn’t hit you, I probably would have. How do you think I feel when I have to hear all this stuff from Sandra bloody Bennett because you haven’t had the nerve to tell me yourself? She came round for a coffee this morning. She is so hacked off with you, it’s untrue. She said you took Olivia Finch to watch cricket – cricket of all bloody things – and then set her Joseph up on a date with her. And all I can think while she’s telling me this is, “Why didn’t the lying swine tell me he’d been with Madame Finch all day?” Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, Joe?’
‘Mwa mwa mwwahh,’ (‘I can explain’) I started to reply before realising that that might not only be conceptually difficult but physically impossible.
‘Not now,’ she replied. ‘Wait until the kids are in bed. You can write it down if it’s easier. Here, let me take a look at that mouth. You may have to go to A and E and have that checked out. Make sure that bastard hasn’t done any real damage.’
‘Mummy, what’s a “bastard”?’ asked Helen, looking up from Natasha’s lap.
‘It’s another word for a man,’ said Natasha. ‘But don’t use it at school.’
Thankfully, Natasha decided, after much rootling around inside my mouth, that a trip to Casualty wouldn’t be necessary, although she did book me an emergency appointment with the dentist for the following day. It was a relief to be spared the four-hour wait in some hideous wind tunnel, surrounded by fighting drunks and retching drug addicts, only to be told that I had indeed lost two teeth and should try to avoid being smacked in the mouth again until the bleeding had stopped.
By the end of the evening, the visit to the hospital seemed the better option.
‘So,’ Natasha began as she reappeared downstairs after putting the children to bed, ‘let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?’ She had made no mention of dinner. I was going to have to sing for my supper. I had several ice cubes pressed to my swollen mouth, which had eased the pain a little but made talking even more difficult. My upper lip was so cold that it could play little part in the enunciation of most vowel sounds and many consonants. I had to let Natasha develop her argument while I tried to thaw myself out with a glass of red wine.
‘Last Thursday,’ she said, ‘you went to work as usual but then, instead of spending your afternoon at the office, you took the most beautiful woman on the planet to a game of cricket – poor cow. Then you came home in a foul mood and told me you’d had a rotten day at work. Do stop me if I get any of this wrong.’
‘I will,’ I forced out from beneath my frozen lip, sounding like a mobster taking his wedding vows.
‘Good. So I take it I’ve got it right so far?’ I nodded. ‘And, according to Sandra Bennett, you also told Ms Finch that you would ask Bennett to go and see her that evening. Which raises two questions: why didn’t you tell me you’d spent the afternoon with Bennett’s new lady friend? And then, why did you try to set him up again when you’d been explicitly told to get her to lay off him? What are you getting yourself mixed up in here, Joe? And why did you lie to me about it? What is it you’re trying to hide?’
I wanted to point out that that was, in fact, many more than two questions, but thought better of it. Natasha held my gaze, waiting for my reply. I rubbed my injured face and winced to indicate that I would answer as soon as I could formulate an answer that wouldn’t put too much pressure on my damaged mouth.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ I began, speaking slowly and mumbling even more than usual. ‘I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d get upset and …’
Natasha could see I was struggling to speak. She was also struggling not to interrupt. So she interrupted. ‘Why should I get upset? If you’d explained the situation to me, why would I have had to ask any more questions? Let’s face it Joe, you’re not exactly a matinee idol, are you? And even if, in some parallel universe where overweight, bald Jewish accountants were considered a top catch for beautiful Hollywood actresses, Olivia Finch did decide to ditch Bennett for you, I very much doubt that a day at Lord’s would be the quickest way to get inside her knickers. Or maybe that’s what turns her on. Perhaps she lives such a glamorous life that she gets a perverse thrill from being bored senseless.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I should have told you.’ I paused to wipe a trickle of drool from the corner of my mouth and prepare myself to attempt another complex sentence. ‘I just thought it would be easier to blame my foul mood on a bad day at the office than on all this crap with Olivia Finch.’
‘But now look where it’s got you,’ Natasha said, finally starting to sound a little more sympathetic. ‘You’ve pissed me off because you lied to me and I had to hear the truth from Sandra Bennett, and you’ve made Bennett so angry that he’s knocked out two of your teeth. I bet Bill Davis isn’t best pleased either.’
‘It was an accident,’ I interrupted. ‘Bennett hitting me, I mean. We were doing a stupid training exercise and he accidentally punched me in the face.’
‘Well, however it happened, it’s pretty obvious this isn’t doing you any good at work, is it? So, sweetheart, if you’ll take a bit of advice from me, cut out th
e lying. Stick to stuff you’re good at like …’ – she paused for effect, compounding my growing feeling of uselessness – ‘like counting, or stalking celebrities. Now pour me a glass of that wine and let’s consider the matter closed.’ She was brooking no argument on this, and I was glad to let her draw a line under it. Another bullet dodged. ‘I’d better go and sort that jacket out for you – it will have to go to the dry cleaners tomorrow to get the blood out. You’ll be wanting to take it to Cannes, won’t you? And you won’t want to turn up looking like Bela Lugosi.’
I settled back in my chair, sipping the warm red wine and enjoying the thawing sensation it was having on my swollen and frozen face. I might have dodged this bullet, but I knew it wouldn’t take long for Natasha to reload. When she came back downstairs, after she’d finished sorting out my jacket, I was sure to face further questioning. The same jacket I’d worn to Lord’s the previous week, with the pocket on the outside into which Olivia had stuffed her salacious invitation; the jacket that Natasha was, at that very moment, emptying the pockets of in preparation for the cleaners. Bollocks!
I rushed out of the living room and up the stairs as fast as my swollen mouth would allow me. Every step jarred and I had to keep my hand pressed under my chin to reduce the vibration. I careered around the corner of the landing and into our bedroom. Natasha was holding the blood-stained jacket in one hand, methodically working her way through the pockets. The first had yielded a couple of taxi receipts, a crumpled chewing-gum wrapper and a folded flyer offering cheap off-peak phone calls to Nigeria, Botswana and Chad. The second offered up the rest of the packet of chewing gum and the stubs of two tickets for Lord’s. Natasha seemed more relaxed since our chat and was humming contentedly to herself. She looked up in surprise when she heard me enter the room. I was panting heavily, making it even more difficult to speak.
‘Stop!’ I blurted out rather too insistently. Natasha was already ferreting through the inside pockets, from which she produced a pen and a few scraps of paper.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. She looked concerned – like someone who is watching the man they love disintegrating before their eyes.
‘Let me do that.’ It was a demand rather than a request.
‘No, I’m fine. I’m nearly done now.’ She was equally adamant. She folded the jacket over one arm and went to put it in a carrier bag. I looked on the bed behind her for evidence of the contents of the outside breast pocket. As well as Olivia’s note, I guessed there would also have been some business cards and, perhaps, a Tube ticket or two. There was no trace of any of these things in the little pyramid of detritus Natasha had carefully assembled in the middle of the duvet. I breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Well, at least let me put it in the bag for you. Leave it on the bed and I’ll sort it out.’
Natasha already had a perfectly serviceable jacket-sized plastic bag in her left hand, poised to take the garment as soon as her right hand let it go. Further delay seemed unnecessary. We stood looking at each other, me breathing loudly through my nose, her eyes wide in confused fascination. When it was clear she wasn’t going to hand it over, I made a lunge for the jacket, but she ripped it from my grasp with a matador’s flick.
‘What is wrong with you?’ she asked. ‘Why are you acting so strangely? Perhaps we should go to the hospital and get you a brain scan.’
‘I’m not acting strangely,’ I insisted, fishing behind her back as she held the contested garment out of my reach.
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Natasha replied. ‘If you hadn’t grabbed at me, I’d have stuffed the jacket in the bag five minutes ago and be back downstairs watching Corrie by now.’
‘Just give me the jacket and go downstairs then. Please.’ I had managed to get hold of an arm now and secured enough leverage to pull the jacket from Natasha’s grasp. She gave a little huff of indignation as she let it go. ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I’ll pop it in the bag and join you in a minute. OK?’
Natasha walked out of the bedroom without another word. I listened for her footsteps descending the stairs. When I was sure she was out of earshot, I unfolded the jacket and reached into the breast pocket with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand.
After a few seconds of fiddling about, I finally found what I was looking for. ‘Got it!’ I said out loud.
‘Got what?’ asked Natasha, who had sneaked back up the stairs and was now leaning against the door frame watching me.
I closed my eyes, hoping that might render the piece of paper I was holding invisible. If I couldn’t see it, perhaps Natasha wouldn’t be able to either. ‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘I was just checking you had the right jacket, that’s all. So I unfolded it and had a look and, yep, it absolutely is the right jacket. Do you think the cleaners will be able to get these stains out? I hope so. This is one of my favourite jackets, you know. Didn’t we get it from that outlet place off the M4? What’s it called again?’
‘Got what?’ Natasha asked again.
‘Hmm?’ I held my mouth and winced to indicate that further talking might be uncomfortable. In fact, unless I could think of something plausible to say, any further talking might have been fatal.
‘Joe, I can always tell when you’re lying because you start to talk to me like a normal person – using proper sentences instead of grunting like a Neanderthal.’ She spelled the next bit out slowly as if I was indeed something from an earlier evolutionary epoch. ‘What is that piece of paper you’re holding? Come on, show me!’
She was wearing her face that brooked no argument. The one she employed whenever the children needed scaring back into line. I handed over the piece of paper with all the desperate resignation of a recaptured prisoner of war presenting his badly forged passport to an SS Officer. Natasha opened it and read aloud:
Room 846 – can’t wait to play ball with you again English!!! Love you, Ox
‘Well?’
‘Well, first, I think that’s meant to be ‘O’ and then a kiss, not ‘Ox’.
I didn’t want my wife thinking I was carrying around a love note from some hairy-arsed biker who’d taken a shine to me.
‘Oh, right,’ Natasha said. ‘So that would be “O” as in “Olivia”, presumably?’
I nodded.
‘And “English” would be …?’
‘Well, obviously,’ “English” is Bennett, isn’t it?’ There were only two options and this was sure as hell the better of them. I was trying desperately not to portray every tic of the liar – the strange eye movements, sweating, too much hesitation, too little hesitation, nose growing longer with every word. ‘That bloody madwoman gave me this note and asked me to pass it on to Bennett. But I didn’t, which was when all the shit hit the fan at work. And by the way,’ I mumbled on, ‘Bennett still denies that he ever slept with her.’
‘So if this note was meant for Bennett,’ Natasha asked, eyeing me like a QC grilling a hostile witness, ‘why were you so anxious for me not to see it?’
‘What?’ I asked, trying to look, as well as sound, incredulous. I even managed a short, derisory laugh to underscore the craziness of her suggestion. ‘I wasn’t trying to stop you seeing it, darling – I gave it to you, didn’t I? Hey, why don’t I run you a lovely hot bath? You look tired.’
Natasha looked me up and down again, far from convinced by this explanation, but unable to formulate a plausible alternative hypothesis. There was only one possible explanation as to why her husband would want to stop her reading a suggestive note from a beautiful woman – and that explanation just wasn’t possible. I could sense the computer behind Natasha’s cool blue eyes trying to work out other scenarios – but drawing blanks. There were still some fundamental truths in this crazy world: two and two must always equal four; water must always freeze at zero; no Hollywood superstar could ever want to sleep with her husband.
‘And what does she say?’ Natasha asked eventually when she had checked the situation out from every angle and assured herself that, despite everything, I
might be telling the truth.
‘What does who say?’
‘Olivia, you idiot. You said that Bennett still denies he slept with Finch. What does she say about it? Don’t tell me you spent the whole day with her and didn’t ask her about what happened.’
‘Erm,’ I stalled (literally – my brain had slipped into neutral and the gears were spinning aimlessly, searching for yet another likely tale). ‘Well, she might have mentioned one or two things, but, to be honest, I was mostly watching the cricket. You know what I’m like. Rubbish at remembering all the details.’
‘So a guy in your office spends the night with the sexiest woman on the planet – a woman you’ve admitted to me you fancy yourself – and you’d rather watch cricket than find out what went on? I don’t believe you!’ she said finally, taking herself out of the bedroom and off down the stairs.
I sat on the bed and slowly refolded the blood-spattered jacket and put it into the carrier bag. I was pretty sure Natasha meant ‘I don’t believe you’ in the sense of ‘I don’t believe I married such a moron’ rather than ‘I think this moron I married is lying’. It was strangely comforting to think that my wife was convinced she had married an imbecile rather than an adulterous liar.
The painkillers were wearing off and my face was starting to ache again. Even the missing teeth hurt. I stumbled back down the stairs like a man descending blindfolded into the abyss, not sure anymore who I was or what the hell I was doing.