Authors: David Nobbs
The drive up to Hampstead wasn’t good either. The world and his wife were taking advantage of this sunny weekend, and Hampstead was a natural target. The drive took the best part of forty-five minutes. His hour with Gareth had exhausted him. His attempt to find something interesting to say about the German Pope had exhausted him. He didn’t even switch the radio on, because he knew that he wouldn’t have the energy to shout at it.
It was difficult to park outside the alternative health clinic, and he felt very claustrophobic as he manoeuvred the ridiculously bulky Subaru into a tight corner.
‘Holly’s running a bit late, but she won’t be long,’ the receptionist with the birthmark told him.
‘Thank you.’
That was a relief. He needed to relax. He didn’t want Holly telling him that his pulses were really bad. He went to her and to his doctor to be told that nothing was wrong and that any problems were in his imagination.
He picked up the top magazine. It looked suitably boring. He opened it at random and found himself looking at the interior of a house which was so expensively furnished that none of the magazine’s readers could possibly have afforded to follow the style. Good. This looked really dull and pulse-calming.
‘
Tamsin told me that her aim
,’ he read,
‘was “to create a house that contained no element that one would be ashamed to show to one’s friends in Chelsea, but whose style made more than a cursory nod to the fact that it was actually just outside Diss.”’
Yes, it was indeed a bad day. Now there was no chance of relaxation. Now his mind was churning with those old worries. What had she been doing near Diss? Why the red Prada shoes?
A lesbian relationship? Her, Tamsin and an elegant, upmarket, semi-urban, semi-rustic antique dildo that she’d spotted in an antique shop in Pimlico?
A party at Tamsin’s? London people streaming out to Diss for rustic raves?
He turned the pages and there was a picture of Tamsin. Smug, snobbish yet succulent, as he had known she would be.
‘Hello, James. Sorry to keep you.’
He put the magazine back and followed Holly into her surgery on weary legs but with angry, racing, humiliating pulses.
‘Sit down.’
He sat at the side of her desk, at an angle of ninety degrees to her. Holly was about thirty-five, pleasant to look at but with no trace of glamour. She smiled. It was a smile that promised a pleasant hour, but could she offer anything more? How did you know if your acupuncturist was any good? How did you know how you would have felt if you hadn’t been going to her? He had no idea whether these fortnightly visits achieved anything.
‘So, how have you been?’
The story yet again.
The sympathy yet again.
‘Right. Let’s get you on the couch.’
He took off his shoes, socks and shirt, rolled up his trousers, and lay on the couch, on the hygienic paper covering.
‘How are things with you?’ he asked. He didn’t want all the questions to be one way, as they usually tended to be in any doctor-patient relationship.
‘Not bad,’ she said, as she began to feel his pulses. ‘Den is surviving, and in two thousand and ten that can’t be bad.’
‘I don’t think I know what line he’s in exactly.’
‘Preserves. He sells preserves. Well, your pulses aren’t good, the liver is particularly angry.’
‘I have been drinking rather more than usual.’
‘I’d be very worried if I hadn’t known what you’ve told me. Even so I’m mildly worried. Try to pull back on your drinking and, hard though it will be, try to relax.’
‘I will.’
She began to stick the needles into him. He never asked her why she put what where. He just accepted her decisions and assumed that she knew what she was doing. He sometimes wondered if he had a curiosity deficiency.
‘What sort of preserves?’
Talking about her life was so much more relaxing than talking about his. Why hadn’t he realised this before?
‘Jams. Marmalade. Chutneys. Sauces. Jellies. Relishes.’
‘Would I have heard of the names?’
‘Well, he’s got a big new range with cosy, personal names that’s doing rather well. Mrs Wilson’s Tangerine Marmalade. Granny Copgrove’s Spicy Plum Chutney. Ma Bakewell’s Apricot Jam. Cousin Annie’s Tomato Relish.’
‘Oh, that’s nice. Using local small-time people. Very nice.’
Holly gave a shamefaced little smile.
‘All made in his factory in Kuala Lumpur, actually,’ she admitted. ‘Right. Now try to relax.’
‘I will. I’ll probably fall asleep.’
She put a chair at either side of the couch, so that he could lay his arms upon them, and then she left him to it. He would now lie there for some forty minutes, with his arms stretched out, like a man being crucified on a horizontal cross, alone with his thoughts, in that cool, utilitarian room.
In front of him was Holly’s desk and the chair on which he had put his shirt, and under which he’d left his socks and shoes. On his left were shelves full of opaque jars containing unattractively coloured herbal products. Holly was a medical herbalist as well as an acupuncturist. On his right were more shelves full of smaller, empty brown bottles with blank labels, and two small windows, affording a view of the still, pale unchanging blue of the summer sky.
Behind him … he had no idea what was behind him. He was never facing that way.
He lay there, half naked and studded with needles. He felt like the onion studded with cloves that he put with the kidney beans in the rather superior chilli con carne that he occasionally made. A rush of affection and nostalgia swept over him as he thought of all the cosy winter meals he’d enjoyed with Deborah, and of her delight when, just occasionally, he turned his hand to the stove. He closed his eyes and let his weariness drift over him. He wondered if Helen would enjoy his chilli, his curry, his spaghetti Bolognese, his occasional man food. He thought about tomorrow. About tomorrow after lunch. Sunday afternoon in a king-sized bed in South Kensington. Sunday afternoon with the woman with whom he would spend the rest of his life. It would be their first time in their new circumstances. He thought of their first time ever. The first time he had seen that pale, slender, boyish but exquisite frame.
The Travelodge, Bridgend.
He thought about another heatwave, four years ago, or was it five? Just a few days of sun, but in the sea as the tide came in the water had been warm. They had lain side by side in the shallows and very gently, under the water, given each other orgasms, within a few feet of children building sandcastles with total innocence. Other people could be quite rude about it, but he had a real affection for Porthcawl.
This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t calm those pulses. Maybe – it was a sinister thought – Holly would be able to tell what he’d been thinking about. ‘Who’s been a naughty boy, then?’
His nose began to itch, as it so often did on these occasions. There was no real reason why it should itch. It was in his mind. There was therefore no reason to scratch, since he couldn’t scratch his mind. So, believing himself to be a logical kind of man, he tried not to scratch. But the logic didn’t work. The itch grew intolerable. Very carefully, very anxiously, worried that one or two of the needles would fall out and disturb the whole balance of the thing, he moved his right arm towards his nose, and gave his right nostril a good scratch. Oh, what a blissful cocktail of pain and pleasure a good scratch was. And none of the needles fell out.
But that little episode had not exactly been relaxing. He must relax. He let his arms and legs flop. He closed his eyes more firmly. He was going, going, slipping away.
The door was opening, very slowly. Deborah was standing there, smiling. Of course. He’d given her the key. She stood there, so lovely. Her smile was such a direct, uncomplicated affair. Nobody had looked upon the prospect of him with such utter joy before. She let her nightshirt drop to the floor and there she was in all her naked magnificence in the middle of the Maltese night. The full thighs, the luscious bush, the generous breasts, the rounded stomach, the wide mouth, the multitude of white teeth. Oh, the joy of it, and the danger too, with all four of their parents asleep in nearby rooms on that very corridor. He looked at the rows of bottles of herbal medicines and wondered what they were doing there. And then he wasn’t in Malta and Deborah was dead and he had a great bulge in his rolled-up trousers and in a few hours he would be eating walnut sponge with his mother. He’d needed to get rid of his bulge but he was sorry to see it go quite so quickly.
But this vision of his first time with Deborah had unnerved him. For goodness’ sake, he was supposed to lie here and relax.
He must try to think about something other than sex.
The disappearance of Ed. He’d asked Jane to phone if there were any developments, but would she? Could she? Did he want her to? Should he give her another ring? Supposing … supposing Ed was dead.
He wondered if he would still find her attractive. How many years was it since he’d last seen her? Ten? Maybe even more.
He remembered her long legs and her wide mouth and her green eyes. No, he didn’t. He remembered that her legs were long, that her mouth was wide, that her eyes were green. He remembered the words, the facts, but he couldn’t see the pictures.
There would be no point in seeing her again. He was going to live with Helen.
It would be interesting, though.
But he didn’t think he could possibly like her. How could you like someone who had managed to live for almost twenty-five years with Ed? And mustn’t she have been in cahoots with him, to have lent her name to the revived businesses?
Why was he thinking about Jane? He might just as well be thinking about the girl at the fruit-and-vegetable stall in the market, the one with a touch of Gypsy in her, the sheen on her dark skin, this aubergine of a girl, the bright challenging eyes, the feline grace, the black hair made to be tossed like a flamenco dancer’s, the sumptuous sexiness, to slowly peel this Spanish onion…
Help. There was an itch in his soul and he couldn’t reach it to scratch it.
Think Mike. Think this evening in the pub. Bitter beer and bitter thoughts.
Think packaging. Think styrofoam. Think Bridgend and Kilmarnock.
There was a barmaid in that pub in Bridgend, with Celtic mystery in her dark eyes as she pulled the pints … no!
Forty minutes was a long time for a man to be left on his own lying down and festooned with needles, especially in the middle of such a stressful and emotional week. All those thoughts, and there were still sixteen minutes to go.
And then the door was opening and Holly was sliding in like a nervous rabbit, and he realised that he had fallen into a deep sleep. He needed more sleep, much more, hours of it.
‘How are we?’
‘I must have fallen asleep.’
‘Good. That’s good.’
Sometimes she was talkative, but this morning she moved round him in silence, removing the needles, occasionally dabbing away a bit of blood. He was grateful for the silence.
She pumped the couch up a couple of feet with her foot, and began to take his pulses. He could feel himself getting anxious. This was awful. It was ridiculously important to him that she should give him a good report. But if she did, might it not mean that she didn’t actually know what she was talking about?
After she’d read his pulses she gave him a searching look, and he could feel himself coming out in goose pimples. You dirty old man. You sick soul. You poor, wretched, confused individual. Porthcawl indeed!
What was she thinking? What had his pulses told her?
‘Mm,’ she said. ‘Not as improved as I’d hoped. Not as rested as I would have expected. The right kidney, in particular, is not happy.’
She lowered the couch with her foot. He put his shirt back on, rolled his trousers down, put on his socks and shoes. As he bent down he felt distinctly dizzy. Not good.
He paid. She gave him a receipt. He couldn’t meet her eyes.
‘Go carefully, James,’ she said. ‘Be sensible.’
The man who was no longer in his white linen suit approached the reception desk. Last time he had approached that desk there had been love and hope in his soul. Now there was emptiness.
The Hungarian receptionist wasn’t there. A man was on duty.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Yes. I spoke to your Hungarian receptionist on the phone yesterday.’
‘Ah, Magda, yes. She not on. Day off.’
‘Ah.’
‘Magda, nice girl.’
‘I’m delighted to hear that. Well, no doubt you can help. I left a ring here.’
‘Ring? You want use phone?’
‘No, no. A ring. I left it in the toilet.’
‘No phone in toilet.’
‘No. A ring. My wedding ring. On my finger.’
‘Ah. I understand. Sorry. I no English spoken much. I learn.’
Not quickly enough.
‘I came here … Wednesday. Left my …’ He prodded the finger. ‘… ring. I telephoned …’ He mimed the act of phoning ‘… nice Magda. She said you have the …’ He prodded the finger again. ‘… ring.’
‘I go. I find manager.’
‘Thank you.’
The manager arrived almost immediately.
‘Sorry about that, sir,’ he smiled. ‘Stefan hasn’t been here long. You telephoned Magda and she confirmed that we had found your ring, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, sir. We’ve posted it to you.’
‘Posted it? But Magda said you would keep it for me.’
‘I’m so sorry, sir. There’s been a misunderstanding.’
‘I can’t say I’m surprised. Some of your staff don’t speak much English.’
‘Don’t I know it, sir.’
‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea to employ staff who do speak English?’
‘Would you like to recruit staff for me, sir, around Diss? Most of the locals don’t want to know. I really am sorry, sir.’
‘I’ve travelled the best part of a hundred miles to get here.’
‘We do a two-course set lunch for eleven ninety-five on a Saturday, sir. I can offer you that on the house, with my apologies.’
‘Thank you. Thank you, but no …’ Couldn’t bear another lunch on my own, remembering that awful day. ‘I have to get back.’