The Queen's Margarine (27 page)

‘Eat up! It's getting cold.'

What she really meant was that he was keeping her from sleep. He would gladly whisk her to her bedroom, cuddle up beside her, demonstrate his skills in a different, wordless way. Instead, he cut slowly into the rubbery fried egg. It was so small, a wren must have laid it; possibly a sparrow. The frilled edges of the white were overlaid with globules of fat and flecked with black specks from the sausage, itself afloat in a greasy pool of beans. Who cared? It
was enough that she was
here
, so that he could flash back thirty years and imagine he and Gemma were breakfasting together after a night of passionate love.

‘So where d'you live?' she asked, perhaps finding the silence oppressive – as indeed he did himself – or maybe feeling
duty-bound
to earn the cash he'd slipped her.

Again he hesitated. Walsall sounded so unappealing, on a par with Slough and Scunthorpe. He was tempted to say Land's End: the most romantic spot on earth, because he'd met beloved Gemma there – and romantic in its own right as the last land before America, wooed by clamorous waves. He rarely went on holiday, either then or now, but a pal had talked him into a fishing trip, and he'd caught not bass or mackerel, but a slender, red-haired beauty, who had nibbled at his bait, threshed and plunged as he hooked her; become even more tempestuous as he reeled her in and netted her; as wild as the wild waves themselves.

‘My territory's the West Midlands,' he said, at last, hoping the word ‘territory' might compensate for the ‘Midlands'. And for a moment, yes – he'd exchanged the fishing-boat for a trusty steed and was galloping full-pelt across the prairie, with Gemma flung across his saddle, and the far horizon beckoning him on to adventure and escape.

‘Yes, but where's your actual house?'

Flat, he corrected silently. What he hated about the Midlands (West or East) was its sheer distance from the sea. He had always longed to live on the coast – indeed, he and Gemma had planned to stay in Cornwall and buy a cliff-top cottage. He remembered wandering hand-in-hand with her along the wind-whipped strand, and the thunderous waves breaking on the shore had been so unrestrained, explosive, they had seemed an apt expression of his love. Later, when he'd lost that love (
and
the hoped-for cottage), he had walked the same unhappy beach; the strident seagulls mocking him, as they screeched out Tristram's name.

‘So is this your full-time job?' he asked, keen to drown memories of Tristram, and also shift attention from the location of his flat. ‘Helping run the hotel?'

‘No fear! I can't wait to get away.'

‘And what then? Do you have plans?'

A dreamy look came over her face. ‘Oh, yes! I want to see the world. Swan off somewhere exciting; trek across the desert or maybe climb the Himalayas. Actually I don't care where it is, so long as it gets me out of this hell-hole.' She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Shit! I shouldn't have said that, should I?'

‘Don't worry. It's good that you have ambitions.' His own ambitions had died along with Gemma. After that doomed encounter, he'd become panicky and paralysed; no longer daring to spread his wings or take the slightest risk. He still lived close to his birthplace, as if any other part of England was dangerous, even disastrous. And although his life was spent on the road, every day was trammelled; yoked to rigid appointments and unremitting sales-targets, with no scope for breaking out.

‘You're not eating,' Stacey said. ‘Don't you like it? I must admit, I'm not the world's greatest cook.'

‘It's delicious,' he said, biting into the sausage, which, although burnt both ends, was still semi-raw in the middle.

‘I don't want to rush you, Derek, but I have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow.'

‘Sorry,' he repeated. He'd lost count of the times he'd said it. Although being apologetic never really paid. Brash, bold blokes were the ones who got the girls. Still, at least she had used his name, which was definitely encouraging. ‘I won't say another word, I promise. I'll just concentrate on eating.'

He scooped up a forkful of beans. The sauce was thin, yet unpleasantly sweet and a brilliant orange in colour, as if it had been watered down with orange squash. And, as he cut into the fried bread, a yellow pus of grease spurted on to his chin. He didn't mind in the least. Gemma, too, had been a lousy cook. They had lived on love – and chips.

‘D'you mind if I clear off the tea-things?'

‘No, go ahead,' he mumbled, through a mouthful of cold egg. He hadn't even succeeded in pouring her a cup of tea, and she'd already whisked away the second cup. Why was he so backward? A slow learner. A slow eater.

At last, he put his knife and fork down, feeling slightly nauseous. The excess fat had congealed on his plate into a semisolid phlegm. Yet he'd happily drown in blubber if only he could
watch her dainty hands again, picking up the teapot and the milk jug. He yearned to be the sugar-bowl, so that he, too, could feel that close caress. He suspected she was lingering in the kitchen just to get away from him. Yet, however knackered she might be, she'd be duty-bound, in the absence of the mother, to show him to his room. Could he delay her there, perhaps – say he needed extra blankets; pretend he'd forgotten his toothbrush and ask if she could find him one?

‘OK, ready?' she asked, zooming back in, and locking the kitchen door with pointed emphasis.

‘Yes, but I'm wondering if I should move the car?' If she followed him outdoors, he might manage to waylay her by pointing out the constellations. Except he didn't have a clue how to distinguish Mars from Venus, let alone Orion's Belt from the Plough. And, anyway, there
were
no stars – the night was too overcast.

‘Why? Where did you leave it?'

‘In that little space by the side of the house.'

‘It's OK there. No problem.'

She seemed in such a rush, there was little chance of dallying in the moonlight. Instead, she all but shoved him into the hall.

‘Your room's on the first floor. I'll just go and get the key.'

As she turned her back, he gazed at her legs again. Her skirt was provocatively short – little more than a cake-frill – which meant he could admire the full expanse of milky, freckled flesh; the seductive curve of the thigh, disappearing beneath the—

‘Got your case?'

‘I left it somewhere here.'

‘Ssshh! Don't wake Mum. She sleeps on the ground floor.'

And where do
you
sleep, he longed to ask, as he followed her up the stairs, riveted by the wiggle of her bottom as she took the steps two at a time. That energy, that verve – so similar to Gemma's.

‘I'm afraid it's not exactly the Ritz,' she said, unlocking the door of a small, low-ceilinged room. An expert when it came to beds, he knew this one didn't rate at all, although at least the lurid counterpane matched the frilly curtains – more or less.

As she held the door for him to enter, he was tempted to pick her up bodily and deposit her on the bed. Then he'd—

‘Shower's in here,' she said, opening the door of what looked like
a dark cubby-hole. ‘Though the water won't be hot at this hour. Oh, shit – the bathroom light's gone!'

Good, he thought, now you'll have to fetch a replacement.

‘Do you
need
the bathroom tonight?' she asked, a note of desperation in her voice.

‘Well, yes, I …'

‘Thing is, I don't know where the sodding light bulbs are kept.'

‘Don't worry,' he said, suddenly taking pity on her. ‘I can always prop the door open. The light from here will be quite enough to see.'

‘Great! That's really decent. Thanks a mill. Goodnight.'

She couldn't wait to get away, rattling down the stairs even faster than she'd climbed them. He crept after her surreptitiously, to see where she was going; watched her zip along the corridor and disappear into one of the ground-floor rooms. She was obviously dead-tired, desperate for some shut-eye. Young girls probably needed loads more sleep than fifty-something males, although he wouldn't really know. His entire experience of girls – young, old or middle-aged – had been restricted to Gemma, which only went to show what a total wimp he was.
Other
men knew how to handle females. Kevin, his Sales Manager, had slept with strings of women, whereas he was still an almost-virgin at the age of
fifty-three
.

Heaving his case on to the (patently substandard) bed, he unpacked his few possessions. The wire hangers in the wardrobe had rusted slightly and felt sticky to the touch. He only hoped they wouldn't stain tomorrow's clean white shirt. In the drawers he found a Bible, a dead moth and a bent hairpin. Sitting on the bed in his underpants, he began leafing through the Bible; every verse he read seeming to threaten retribution. He saw God as very similar to the ‘Sleep-Sound' C.E.O.: remote, vindictive and tyrannical; bestowing rewards and punishments at whim. Gemma's God was different – female and benevolent.

What had happened to her, he wondered, as he'd done umpteen times before? Had she stayed with Tristram and produced a clutch of kids; celebrated her Silver Wedding and be aiming for her Golden? Was she even at this moment knitting bootees for a grandchild? The world was built round families, yet, apart from those
few months with her, he had always been alone. And his job only served to emphasize his solitude. Despite the fact he spent his days with customers, they were strangers, more or less, and, as he motored from one town to the next, the very streets seemed alien. There was no sense of being ‘at home', and, when he did return to his flat, he would eat and sleep (and plan and dream) on his own.

Having put on his pyjamas, he cleaned his teeth in the dim and shadowy bathroom, squinting at his reflection in the mirror. He wasn't actually fat – ‘well-covered' was more the term he'd use – and at least he still had hair, quite decent hair, in fact, though admittedly more grey than brown. Some women preferred older men, valuing their wisdom and experience. Stacey hadn't mentioned a dad. Perhaps the old boy had passed away, which meant she'd need a father-figure, someone solid and dependable. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized her life was rather similar to his. She was trapped, as
he
was; tied to a sick mother and to a wreck of a hotel; her hopes and dreams frustrated. And if the mother was seriously ill, the poor girl might soon be orphaned and completely alone in the world. She'd said she was an only child (like him), so she'd have no brother to turn to, no sister to offer refuge. But
he
could take her in; help her find her feet. And gratitude did sometimes turn to love. OK, the age-gap was huge, but he often read in the paper about blokes in their fifties shacking up with nymphets. Granted, such men were usually rich and famous, but love must feature sometimes – genuine affection; a bond between twin souls.

‘Don't be so ridiculous,' he muttered. ‘You're fantasizing, as usual.'

Turning off the bedroom light, he groped his way to the bed. A bedside lamp hadn't been provided, or indeed a fire. The radiator was obstinately cold, and its valve so stiff he couldn't move it an inch. He shivered as he eased his body between the clammy nylon sheets. Forget memory-foam mattresses – this one felt like horsehair. As he edged his legs down, he suddenly encountered a rip in the sheet, only to tear it further as he tried to extricate his foot. The thing was paper-thin, probably rotting from years of laundering. Couldn't the invalid mother even afford some decent bed-linen?

Wearily he dragged himself up again, deciding to remake the bed and use the ripped sheet as the top one rather than the bottom. He switched the light back on and stood inspecting the damage. The tear was eighteen inches long, for heaven's sake! Surely he had every right to demand a serviceable sheet? Stacey was probably still awake, so if went down now, he'd catch her. From what he gathered, women took an age before they actually settled down to sleep; doing mysterious female things such as creaming their faces or putting their hair in curlers.

Flinging on his dressing-gown, he descended the stairs as quickly as he dared, although being careful not to wake the mother.

His heart was racing as he paused outside Stacey's door, and not from the exertion. This might be all it needed – a ripped sheet leading to romance. He must handle the situation with the utmost care and tact; forget his own base desires and focus on her needs. It was sympathy she lacked; tenderness, devotion. For all he knew, she might be weeping at this very moment, distraught about her mother's fate – her own fate. He must treat her very gently; clasp her in his arms only to console her; not to sate his lust.

He cleared his throat, smoothed his hair, wishing now he'd sprayed himself with aftershave. But no way was he retreating. He might lose his nerve if he delayed a second longer, so, screwing up his courage, he tapped softly on the door.

No answer.

Maybe she was in the bath. An image of her naked body leapt into his mind; the white flesh gleaming seductively through a haze of foamy suds – although recalling what she'd said about there being no hot water caused the vision to collapse. No, she was probably crying, as he'd thought at first, and embarrassed to be seen with red eyes and tear-stained face.

‘It doesn't matter, darling,' he rehearsed in a soft purr. ‘You're still beautiful to me, however red your eyes.'

He knocked again, louder, but no response whatever. Maybe she
was
asleep, and sleeping very deeply. Was it fair to wake her?

Yes
! He could always soothe her back to sleep, once he'd explained about the sheet, and – more important – explained his rescue-plan. In fact, she'd sleep much sounder when she knew
there was an escape-route, and that his little flat awaited her, as lovers' nest and haven, should death or heartless bankruptcy blitz her world to shreds.