href="#ulink_4e5a0b4f-202d-5cb4-93c5-8ad765b2d881">THREE
TOM TOOK INTO account only the surface features of life, and never went properly into the depths to try and make sense of the turmoil, and bring it under some form of control. In any case, to imagine it would be beneficial or worthwhile or – more important – costeffective, was futile. Wasn’t the dazzle of the surface more attractive than trawling for significance in the stinking slime? Such nitpicking was the work of novelists like Norman Bakewell who, in their hit or miss fashion, manage it fairly well, and make it amusing to read about.
Any answers might be too gloomy to endure, or too bland to respect, and only those without a satisfying life deceived themselves into thinking an explanation could be dragged out of the subconscious (whatever that was) or that any good was to be had from fruitless revelations. And suppose you were telling someone about yourself, who would be interested in self pitying maunderings rather than hearing of bizarre and manly events that made a fascinating story?
Only pathetic and inferior people got involved with the therapy of analysis, or took drugs to blast a way through the obfuscations to a mind that was still as puerile when the dust had blown away. Tom thought that the less he knew about himself the more of a puzzle he would seem to everyone else, and there was much advantage to be gained from that.
After three days of unmitigated sex he travelled back on a different plane to Diana, thus avoiding any taint of suspicion. He left nothing to chance, yet his unthreaded spirit plagued him as he stretched both legs in first-class and poured from a half-bottle of champagne. The stewardess wondered why he laughed, and why he drank so obviously to himself by holding the glass up to her. Poor slob, she thought, he’s put his girlfriend on another flight, and now he has to go home and face his wife.
Tom found it encouraging to believe that whenever he had been to bed with Diana – or whoever else – any young woman within range would be curious about him. It could be that his marriage to Angela had made him an interesting if not near perfect man for other women who, being clever and intuitive, felt it – which thought made him smile as he fastened his safety belt.
Yet things didn’t seem as right as they ought to be, and there were times when he felt timid and insignificant, having nothing, deserving nothing, and existing in an aura of boring mediocrity, an utterly dissatisfied state of mind which no one else was allowed to suspect. To lift himself out of this near fatal fit of corroding worthlessness needed such energy as, when he succeeded, gave him a shark-like and not unsubtle advantage in dealing with anyone at work (and elsewhere) who stood in his way. He never knew the reason for this sudden descent into a bleak landscape, had no indication as to where it was or where it had come from. God-given and God-smitten, was all he could say. Maybe it was the curse of the black dog, which resulted from too much good living, too much hard work, and too much sex.
A glimpse of Hyde Park between the cumulus helped him back to an awareness of the world, making him feel as if London and everyone in it belonged to him. He never travelled with enough luggage to put on the conveyor, so could go through the nothing to declare – but not too quickly in case the Customs people suspected his briefcase to be bulging with crack – and take a taxi straight to the office.
The M4 was blocked as usual, by a lorry that had shed its load – or was it a burst water main, or a chemical spill, or one of those common accidents involving a half blind non smoking teetotal vegetarian of eighty hurrying for his (or her) insulin shot? Well, whatever was wrong with Tom, he knew he was in love with Diana, and that their liaison was worth all he put into it, because the more you did the better it would get, which was better for both and so, ultimately, best of all for him.
Walking up the path at dusk, a raddled tiredness made every limb ache, but he forced a brisk pace, because for some reason it annoyed Angela when his behaviour suggested he’d had a hard day at the office. He supposed that even signs of a back-breaking slog down the coalmine would have put a curve of disapproval on her lips.
Leaves blowing erratically against the background of a lighted window made it look as if the house was on fire. She usually sat in the living room with her evening vodka and orange, but she wasn’t there. An empty bottle and glass lay on the low table, and every light from the entrance hall to the attic had been left on.
Not in the dazzling white kitchen, either, two plates on the floor overflowing with bits of something gone crispy and black. Upstairs two at a time, he found her by the uncurtained window of their bedroom, holding the little black tape recorder he had been so good as to bring her back from – where the hell was it?
She wore the dress in which he had first noticed her at the office party, the line of small gold buttons on the plum coloured material moulding her bosom to a good figure still. The white lace collar set off her face, though her normally wavy dark hair was as straight as if she had just walked in from a monsoon, which he thought strange, for the hair drier was of the latest powerful make. Even the strongest of men would have been alarmed at her pallid cheeks, as if she had been poisoned by a long afternoon sleep.
‘What is it, love?’
At the press of a switch the sound of his voice couldn’t be denied. He’d heard it before, but is that what it’s like? Scrape, scrape, mumble and snigger. Well, it would be, for something like that, wouldn’t it? Hoping he wasn’t betrayed by the pallor of his own skin brought a laugh up from his ribs when she pressed the machine off.
‘Oh, that!’ he said, ‘I was reading a bit of Norman Bakewell’s latest while getting dressed, sort of acting it out. And you thought I was up to something else! What a beautiful, suspicious and adorable person you are! I love you more and more for thinking that, because it shows how much you love me. You don’t need to flatter me to that extent, sweetheart.’
An ominous sensation told him that his patter wasn’t convincing, not even to himself. You bet it wasn’t. But he went forward to embrace her.
She stepped away. ‘Who’s Diana, you two-timing fucking rat?’ The tape recorder shed pieces after bouncing against his forehead and hitting the floor.
He hoped the liquid was sweat rather than blood, recalling Bakewell’s noble stance at Charlotte’s lunch party when Jo Hesborn had clobbered him for far less than this. ‘She’s a character in Norman’s novel. It was so enthralling I took it to Germany with me. Looks like we’ve got another bestseller on our hands. I left it at the office, but I’ll finish it tomorrow. I wouldn’t have put it down, but I wanted to be with you for the evening.’
‘Oh, did you?’
‘Thought we could go out for a meal.’ He put a hand over his face. ‘God, that really hurt. What did you do it for?’
There was something to be said for not saying very much, but there was even more to be said for saying so much that she wouldn’t be able to disbelieve the lies he was forced to tell. Failing that, she would be mystified by what she thought he was trying to say – the verbal equivalent of drowning a treaty in ink. All the same, this was life on the Heaviside layer. He would have to take even more care, knowing by her blow what a pity it was that technology hadn’t stopped at the bicycle, the battery-run wireless set, and the wind-up gramophone, but had progressed, if you could call it that, to the diabolical invention of a tape recorder set going by the human voice.
‘I asked you who she was, you lying deceiving gett.’
He was disappointed by how easily she went back to her origins, and she could sense him thinking it, which pained her so much that she angled a heavy glass ashtray halfway upwards. ‘Who is she?’
He flinched. ‘Throw that, and I’ll phone the police.’
‘Will you?’ she raged.
He certainly would. ‘I’d rather them handle you than me kill you. I’ve no intention of running the firm from a prison cell.’
She lowered it, not her plan to kill him – yet. He would die by a thousand cuts. ‘Why don’t you call mummy and daddy, and tell them what a pathetic fix you’re in?’
‘They’re