wax, rolls of soft cloth.
I move a few things around. I put some paint in the car section, throw the chamois leathers on the floor and dance like a dervish on them. I remove the bag from his mini-vacuum and empty it over the chamois, then tear the bag up and replace it in the vacuum. I mix big cans with little cans of paint and, whilst I’m busy generally messing with Adam’s space, I find the can of paint I bought for the hall last year. I remember Adam being adamant.
‘No way,’ he’d said, ‘it’s awful.’
And I remember just accepting that.
It’s much later, after my tuna sandwich dinner, when I return to the garage. I retrieve the can of paint, a wonderful shade of ‘Tiffany’ blue, some brushes and a roller, and begin to redecorate the hall. I’ve never liked the cold stone shade that Adam chose. The preparation – taking all the pictures down, washing the walls – takes ages, and I’m just about to give up when I pick up the tiniest brush and dip it in the paint. It seems to have a life of its own, writing in Tiffany blue over cold stone:
I am Beth. I am strong. I am middle aged. I like champagne, chocolate, the ocean, lacy stockings, Ikea meatballs, flip-flops, Touche Éclat, music and lyrics. I don’t like politicians, call centres, size zero women, snobs, punk rock, horseradish, dastards and women who sleep with dastards
I stand back and admire my work. Without realizing it, I’ve created a sort of text box on the hallway wall. Drawing a square around it, I underline ‘dastards and women who sleep with dastards’. I’m not sure it’s exactly what Caroline had in mind when she said ‘write about yourself’, but it works for me. Before going to bed, I take another peek. Marvellous.
Sleep, however, has become another problem for me. An hour later, I’m still wide awake, with the television on mute and the laptop perched next to me. A small whirring noise lets me know it’s still turned on. Lucky laptop. I leap out of bed, not wanting to think about sex.
In our en-suite bathroom, I am assaulted by images of myself. The French oval wall mirror above the walnut unit housing double sinks confirms that though my green eyes remain my best feature, they have been particularly challenged by Adam leaving. Even my fabulous Touche Éclat struggles to keep up with the dark shadowy veins of a broken marriage.
The full-length mirror to the right of the bath reveals legs that are far too short for my torso. A couple of grey pubic hairs prove beyond any Dead Sea Scrolls that God is a man. The loose bit of my skin overhanging the top of my knickers reminds me I’m a mother, as if I need reminding … My hair which – when I was twenty-two – used to be long, dark brown and shiny, is – now I am forty-two – short, dark brown and matt, compliments of L’Oréal, because I’m worth it. I cleanse my face with a wipe one more time and start to sing. I sing ‘Missing’, the last song of mine that Josh sold, which has earned me the princely sum of £10,500 so far.
‘The mirror doesn’t lie, but who is she and where am I?’ I blast out the lyric with gusto as I head downstairs and take the vacuum from the hall cupboard. I sing louder in my best voice above the drone.
I vacuum the living room, then the dining room and finally the hall. I pass my artwork and smile. When I put the vacuum away and liberate the limescale loo cleaner from the cupboard under the sink, I realize I’m having what Adam used to call an OCD moment, an episode that my therapist would probably have a proper Latin word for. Yellow gloves are snapped into place before I scrub the loos, still singing, with a scourer in one hand and a newly poured glass of wine in the other. If someone could see me, they’d think me quite mad. If there are any aliens watching, they’ll kidnap Sylvia next door instead. They could never take the risk.
I’m sitting in my office, my head in my hands, my elbows rested on the scarred walnut antique desk that Beth sourced somewhere in rural Brittany. My wristwatch claims its ten thirty, which means I’ve been here two hours. Despite the two large screens on the wall opposite, with Bloomberg blinking red downward arrows at me, all I’ve done since I got in is paper-shuffle. Outside my door, the plaque six feet away in the reception area says HALL & FRY. The name is well known in the City. It tells people that we are a respected wealth-management firm, a highly regarded family office. If your family has money, come to us; we’ll look after it, help it grow. You want art? You want to invest in property? The markets? We are specialist consultants. Offering advice. I wish to hell someone would offer me some.
As if on cue, Matt – my business partner for almost twenty years – enters without knocking.
‘You look like shit,’ is his opening line.
I rub my two-day-old facial hair. ‘We’re not seeing clients,’ is my only offer of defence.
‘I still have to look at you.’ He throws a couple of files on my desk. ‘Can you have these back by four and we do have to see clients tomorrow, the Granger brothers? So a shave might be in order?’
I ignore the client reference, ignore Matt’s worried face looking at the screens, lean back and put my feet up on my desk. ‘You pissed off at me for some reason?’
‘Now what would make you think that?’ Matt turns back to me, peers at me above his glasses, then reconsiders and removes them completely. It gives him something to wave at me. ‘Why in the world would anyone be pissed off at the wonderful Adam Hall?’
‘Yeah well, join the queue,’ I mutter, removing my feet.
Matt sits in the chair opposite, runs a hand through his scant hair.
‘What is it you’re doing, Adam? Do you even know? I mean, do you love this girl?’
I stand and look out of the window, try to lose myself in the urban sounds below. The loud hum of traffic, the odd siren, riverboat horns … My office overlooks Tower Bridge and there isn’t a day goes by where I don’t look down from my sixth-floor room and pinch myself. I’m a lucky guy. At least I was a lucky guy. Now I’m a lucky bastard. Lucky dastard. A lucky dastardly bastard. I feel Matt’s eyes bore holes in my back.
‘Adam?’
‘That’s three questions. Which one would you like me to answer first?’
‘Whichever.’
I turn to face him. ‘The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t think I’m in love, but I’m drawn to this woman—’
Matt makes a ‘haruuumph’-type sound. ‘It’s called lust,’ he says, matter-of-factly.
I feel my head shake in defence.
‘If it’s not lust and it’s not love, what is it? Do you have anything in common with her?’
‘Her name is Emma.’
‘Emma then.’ Matt shrugs as he stands, replaces his glasses. ‘What is it you have in common with Emma?’
‘She’s …’ I hesitate for just a moment too long.
‘She is gorgeous,’ he offers. I think in a strange way, he’s trying to help.
She’s ten years younger than me. She comes from money, while my DNA originated in Bethnal Green. She doesn’t even know who The Eagles are and I’ve been to every concert they’ve played in the UK. She couldn’t sing along to Bruce Springsteen with me. She lives in a clutter-free, white, sterile house, whereas I’m – I mean Beth’s – a hoarder.
‘She is gorgeous,’ I agree. ‘And, frankly, the sex is phenomenal.’
I stare at his suited back as he exits the room.
‘Lust.’ He looks back over his shoulder. ‘Told you so … Speaking of which,’ he says grinning, ‘you have a lunch appointment with the subject of my dreams.’
My