by Lisa Jewell
‘But you will tell Jem – at some point – won’t you? I think she has a right to know what sort of a prat you really are.’
‘Yeah, yeah, and I suppose you’ve told Claudia all about your colourful past, have you?’ said Smith, knowing full well that Ralph hadn’t.
‘Yeah, but that’s different, I don’t love Claudia. She doesn’t need to know.’
‘Whoa! Who said anything about love?’ Smith laughed, ‘I think you’re rushing things a bit here! That’s what’s so fantastic – I actually think, for the first time in my life, that I’ve met a woman who’s more into me than I’m into her. D’you have any idea how great that feels? And she lives here, which means I don’t have to worry about all that phonecall and date hell – I’ve got her on tap. This, Ralph my old mate, is what I would call a result!’
Ralph swallowed the bile-like sensation of distaste that rose in his gut as he listened to Smith. He pulled a cigarette from the packet in front of him and tried to bring the conversation to a halt. ‘Well, can you keep it down tonight, please? I’ve got to get up early tomorrow morning and I don’t want to have to put up with you two caterwauling all night.’
‘Why not? I’ve had to put up with Claudia the Queen of Grief for the last six months. And I can assure you that Jem is as quiet as a kitten compared to that bloody banshee. You know, Ralphie, there are decent women out there. You don’t have to go out with a nightmare like Claudia.’
‘Look, I don’t want to piss on your only-just-ignited fireworks here, but all girls seem great when you first start going out with them. Claudia seemed great: “Hey, I don’t want commitment, I don’t want to be tied down, I just want to have fun, I just want you to have fun, of course I don’t mind if you go out with your ex-girlfriend tonight, of course I don’t mind if you cancel dinner, I’m a grown-up woman, I’m cool.” And now look at her. Just watch it, Smith – women, they’re all the same, and don’t you forget it.’
They heard the light in the bathroom being switched off, and the door being shut. Smith got to his feet and stretched.
‘Yeah, yeah. Just you wait. Once you get to know Jem, you’ll know what I mean – she’s just not like that. You’ll love her too.’
‘Nah, Smithie – not my type,’ Ralph said, forcing a grin. ‘And anyway, I thought we weren’t allowed to talk about love.’
As the door shut behind him, and Ralph found himself as he had been all night – alone – he felt a great sense of loss. Things were never going to be the same again. For years life had unfolded nicely, predictably, easily. Now everything was in jeopardy – his home life, his relationship with Smith, his finances, his security, his routines and habits. And, he realized suddenly, more than anything, his heart.
Chapter Eleven
‘Look, I like the music, I’m not saying that I don’t like it. I think it’s great music, classic stuff. But I’m fifty-three, I’m a balding fifty-three-year-old executive with three kids, a house in the country, a Land Rover and acid indigestion, I’m supposed to like it. Hmm, hmm … d’you see what I’m getting at?’
Jeff, programming director at ALR and Karl’s new boss, looked at him across his huge status-symbol desk with his hands held palms up and his face wearing an expression that said There’s a queue of people outside my door waiting to talk to me about budgets and scheduling and I’d really rather just bawl you out and get you out of my office, but because you’re a new boy I’m going to have to be pleasant about this.’
‘Hmm, hmm … d’you see what I’m saying, Karl? Hmm, hmm.’
Karl wished he’d stop doing that ‘hmm, hmm’ thing.
‘Kids just don’t want to listen to Al Green or Jerry Lee Lewis – I do, oh yeah, yeah, I do – but they don’t. D’you understand? Hmm, hmm …’
Karl was beginning to feel like the only guest at a party who hadn’t been told that it wasn’t fancy dress. He’d been brought in to ALR to play a wide range of music, from Top Ten to Tom Jones. That was what had appealed to Jeff when he’d been a guest at a wedding Karl was Deejaying at and that was why he’d got the job, over the heads of all those other DJs struggling for years in hospital radio and small-time local radio stations in Nuneaton and Truro. He was knowledgeable, not just poppy and happy and chirpy. They’d wanted someone their listeners could respect, someone with impeccable taste in music. They’d wanted him to build some sort of reputation – if it’s on the Karl Kasparov show then it must be good.
Drive Time was captive-audience time, listeners trapped in cars. People did other things during the breakfast show, they brushed their teeth, they fed the kids, they made love. Daytime radio was for working to, background noise; as long as the DJ churned out a lot of pop and fun nobody was going to turn the dial.
Drive Time was different, a time for unwinding at the end of a hard day, a time to be selective and demanding and to turn that dial if the DJ was getting on your nerves or the music was repetitive.
Karl, with his deep, lilting Irish accent, his unabrasive sense of humour and his intelligent taste in music was exactly what they were looking for.
And now, after less than two months, they were telling him that they were wrong, that they were losing listeners. The critics loved him, but his audience was ‘turning the dial’ in its thousands.
‘Phone-ins, celebrities, characters, comedy, chat, that’s what you need, Karl, and more Top Ten, hmm, hmm.’ He picked up his phone and dialled. ‘Rick, you got a second, mate? I’m here with Karl, you know, discussing the show, hmm, hmm. We need your expertise here mate, some Rick-style advice. Could you come and see us? Yeah, yeah now, that’s right, great, OK great …’
‘Rick – you know Rick, don’t you – he’s the producer, you know, on Jules’s show? Yeah, right, anyway, he’s got some great ideas, he’s a great bloke full of energy, and funny? – God, he’s funny – I want you to spend some time with Rick, you know, talk talk talk. I’m talking about your free time here, Karl, I’m talking about …’
He stopped and began to search in the top drawer of his vast cyclamen melamine-topped desk with one hand outstretched as if ready to pull Karl back by the lapels were he to attempt to escape. His other hand surfaced with a large bunch of keys. He looked at Karl triumphantly.
‘I’m talking about Glencoe. I’ve got a place up there, an old Presbyterian chapel, converted, miles away from anywhere, it’s ab-so-lute-ly be-yew-tiful, right on the banks of the loch. At this time of year the sun sets right over it – it’s stunning, Karl, really, really stunning – makes you feel kind of small and pointless, that sort of landscape. Puts everything into perspective …’ He fell into a thoughtful silence and then suddenly slammed his hands down hard on the desk. Karl jumped slightly in his seat. ‘And I want you,’ he pointed at Karl, ‘and my mate Rick to get yourselves up there this weekend, with your partners of course, and really have a mess-around, you know, hmm, hmm, get pissed, get off your faces if you want, you know, really unwind and relax, get to know each other and start throwing some ideas about – anything that makes you laugh, anything that makes your girls laugh. You got kids, Karl?’
Karl shook his head numbly.
‘Good. Anyway, I’ll get Sue to give you directions and stuff and money for booze and anything else you want … yeah, that’s a good idea … yeah, take some drugs with you, I want you to come back with some really zany ideas, something for the kids, hmm, hmm. And take some watchables up – you know, Jack Dee, Lee Evans – I’ll get Sue to sort that out for you. Don’t worry about it, I’ll get Sue to sort everything … ah, Rick.’ Jeff stood up. ‘Rick, my favourite producer. Karl, mate, this is Rick de Largy.’
Karl turned around in his chair.
‘Good to meet you – I love your show.’ The man standing in the doorway smiled and held out his hand. He was ridiculously good looking, not in a flash way but quietly and horribly handsome. Karl could suddenly imagine how women felt in the presence of greater beauty. With all this talk of ‘zany’ and ‘kids’ and ‘chat’ Karl had imagined
that this Rick character would be naff and toothy and unpleasantly sweatered, with too much hair and a fake tan. Even his name had sounded tasteless and gaudy. But the man standing in front of him was elegantly dressed in a white cotton shirt, well-cut jeans and what looked like handmade shoes, his gentle-featured face framed by understated wire-framed glasses and his hair a soft champagne blond, short at the back and sides and thick and effortlessly unkempt on the top. He looked about the same age as Karl but much healthier. His skin actually glowed – Karl had thought that only women’s skin glowed.
‘You two,’ said Jeff leaning forward into his desk, ‘are going to be great, great friends – just you wait.’ He beamed like a proud father. ‘Now, what about a bit of lunch then, boys, hmm, hmm?’ He laughed and shook both men’s hands. ‘Let’s go and talk about how Rick here is going to make you the funniest man on Drive Time:
Funny? Funny? Karl felt his heart drop. He’d never felt less funny in his life. His home life was falling apart. Things just hadn’t been the same since that night at the Soly Sombra and afterwards, when Karl had begged Siobhan to have a baby. The atmosphere of warmth and love in their little flat had died and Karl didn’t know why. It should have grown from that night – Cheri was out of his life, he and Siobhan were making plans for the future, he was just about to embark on a fantastic new career, everything should seem new and fresh.
He’d lain in bed on the night of his leaving party and watched Siobhan sitting on the edge of the bed swiftly removing garments, pulling her top over her head, her hair spilling over her smooth white back, and he’d felt a strong rush of love and arousal, not just a need to ejaculate but a need to probe every area of her body, to explore her like he used to when they were younger. He stroked her hair and wound it around his hand into a thick coil that gleamed in the muted lamplight and brushed it against his face – it felt like satin and the lustrous silkiness aroused him further. He placed his arm around her waist, feeling it melt into the pliant rolls of flesh, and reached his hand upwards until it found her breast. He’d groaned then and buried his face into her back and breathed in the scent of her skin deeply, gently massaging her breast, feeling her nipple suddenly bloom under his fingertips, a small warm bullet of flesh.
For years their sexual routine had been fun and frolicsome, rollicking romps, good clean fun. Tonight he wanted more. Every bone and muscle in his body had quivered with desire as he gently pulled Siobhan around and lay on top of her. He pulled her hair from around her shoulders and arranged it carefully into an abundant fan over the pillow – she looked like a Titian archangel. He kissed her hair, her forehead, her plump white cheeks, her eyelids, her ear lobes, her neck – oh God, he wanted to feel every part of her with his lips, his tongue, his fingers. He groaned again and slid his face between her breasts, the tip of his nose feeling the moist pool of sweat that lay between them, damp and hot and pungent. He licked at it, enjoying the taste of the sweat on his tongue while his hands pushed her breasts gently together – ‘oh God oh God’ – he could come now, he really could. His erection was bursting, ripe and angry and pressed hard into Siobhan’s groin – he rubbed it up and down against the coarse hair, the abrasion spreading feelings of desire from the shaft of his penis to the tips of his fingers. He felt Siobhan wriggling slightly under him and stroked her face, wanting the love he was feeling for her to spill from his fingertips into her head, so that she’d know without him breaking the spellbinding silence that was fuelling his desire.
‘Karl … Karl … please, please.’ Siobhan’s voice had sounded like a distant echo, her hands gently pressed down on his shoulders. His tongue continued to forage, his hands grasped her flesh harder and harder …
‘Karl, stop it, please … I … I … don’t want to.’ Karl took Siobhan’s nipple into his mouth and sucked hard on it, running his tongue around the hard warm flesh …
‘Karl, STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT! Get off me!’ She pushed hard down on to his shoulders and tried to roll him away.
‘WHAT?’ screamed Karl. ‘What the fuck is wrong?’ He was on his side of the bed now, his hair wild and on end. He turned to look at Siobhan, who had pulled the duvet up over her body and still lay in the same position. She was crying, silently, huge effortless tears flowing down the sides of her face and on to the pillowcase, a completely blank expression on her reddening face.
‘I don’t want to, Karl, I just don’t want to …’
‘You don’t want to what? What don’t you want to do, Siobhan? Tell me, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I … I … I don’t know.’ She wiped away the teeming tears with the back of her hand to make room for the endless flow.
‘You don’t want me to make love to you – is that it? You don’t want me to love you, to love your body – what, Siobhan? What?’ Karl demanded.
Siobhan sniffed but the tears kept coming. ‘I don’t know Karl. I don’t know … I’m so sorry, I just can’t. I’m sorry …’
‘Well if it’s all the same with you, I’m going to have a wank,’ he snapped, striding through the bedroom towards the bathroom and slamming the door behind him.
Siobhan had watched his angry naked body, still in good shape, defined back muscles, firm round buttocks, his scrotum just visible as the light from the hallway silhouetted him briefly. It was a body she was so familiar with, had loved for so many years, enjoyed for so many years, and as she watched it walk out of the room, away from her, she cried and cried and cried.
She didn’t know what the matter was, or how good her intuition was. But it was something to do with the party at the Sol y Sombra, something to do with that girl, the blonde from upstairs, the one who was getting married. She made Siobhan feel ugly, she made her feel insecure, and for some reason she made Siobhan feel sad and scared, as if something until now immutable had changed for ever.
She wanted to tell Karl, but she couldn’t. How could she explain that she’d rejected him because she thought he wished he was doing those things to Cheri? That she’d lain there while he caressed her and licked her and loved her, and all she could think was that he was fantasizing about that girl, fantasizing that Siobhan’s fat unkempt flesh was Cheri’s taut brown flesh, that her densely haired, pungent genitals were Cheri’s neat soft mound, that the woman underneath him was young and firm and beautiful?
She’d seen the way he looked at Cheri, how he’d blushed, the way he used to blush on campus all those years ago. And what had happened in the office, why had he looked so flustered when he got back? There was no doubt in Siobhan’s mind that Karl fancied Cheri, that he wanted her. It all tied in with the glamour of his new job. How could a top DJ possibly be satisfied with a fat, lazy, hairy woman? He wanted more now, even the way they had sex wasn’t good enough for him now – he wanted steamy Hollywood sex, passion and heavy breathing and grasping flesh, not the usual routine of fun and laughter.
He was probably thinking about Cheri now as he sat on the toilet and vented his frustration, probably enjoying it more than he would writhing around on top of Siobhan’s vast, wobbling body pretending she was someone else.
He obviously didn’t see her as a woman any more. It all made sense. That was why he suddenly wanted her to have a baby after all these years, so she would become a mother, a vessel, not his lover. Young fresh girls were for fucking; fat ugly women were for staying at home and having babies and getting even fatter. Their breasts were for suckling, for hard greedy babies’ mouths to drain of their suppleness and femininity and leave dry and pendulous and ugly, hanging like strips of biltong. And while she nursed his child he would be fucking one of those awestruck girls who congregated outside the ALR building, wanting a piece of DJ.
The door opened quietly and Karl tiptoed in. ‘Shuv, I’ve brought you someone.’
A weight fell on to the bed and a wet tongue stroked Siobhan’s cheek. The aroma of dog wafted in the air. Siobhan hugged Rosanne to her and cried until the tears stopped coming. Karl put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Shuv, I�
��m sorry, I didn’t mean to storm out like that. I didn’t mean to shout. I was just so … so … I just wanted to make love to you so badly tonight.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Please, Shuv, talk to me, tell me what’s on your mind.’
Siobhan just shook her head sadly, put the dog at the foot of the bed and turned on her side away from Karl.
‘I love you,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘I need you.’
He turned over then, the other way, and a heavy wall of silence divided the room, a dense knot of unresolved unhappiness and uncommunicated thoughts hung in the air.
They hadn’t made love since. They hadn’t really talked either. They’d gone about their lives in an apparently normal fashion. Siobhan had given him a hero’s welcome when he returned after the transmission of his first show, and he’d given her flowers. They’d been out to buy a new sofa together and bid an emotional farewell to the old one when they left it at the tip. But things just weren’t the same, there was a distance between them that would have taken a million yards of rope to bridge, an intolerable distance that they were both too afraid to cross, because below was infinite darkness, impossible depth.
The baby had been forgotten about; it hadn’t been mentioned since that night.
Things were not good and now they were getting worse.
No, Karl had never felt less funny in his life.
Chapter Twelve
Jem had always found that men seemed to fall in love very quickly. The full-blown declaration of love usually came within the first week, sometimes sooner. When she was younger she’d been so shocked by these revelations that she would clumsily repeat this much-abused statement in reply, not knowing how else to bring the embarrassing moment to a close. And then, of course, after it had been said once it had to be repeated like a mantra every time it was offered to her like a desperate gift from the love-afflicted soul. She soon learned when the ‘I Love You’ moment was imminent and discovered that when it was countered by a firm but affectionate ‘Don’t be silly, of course you don’t’, it rendered the afflicted one even more desperately in love and devoted.