Authors: R J Gould
The waiter had returned. Bridget lifted her credit card
out of a lilac and pink striped purse crammed full of cards and receipts. “Remember,
I’m paying,” she said as she entered her pin number. The waiter thanked her and
walked off.
They stood and Bridget smiled as David helped her on with
her jacket.
“I can’t think of anything to say to console you,
Bridget. I’m very sorry you had to go through such an awful experience. I
realise it’s quite a time ago, but if I can do anything to help.”
“Thanks, David. And I know you’re genuine about that. Hey,
how did you get here?”
“I drove.”
“Well you can’t drive back in your alcoholic state. There’s
a room at mine if you’d like.”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble. Come on, let’s go.” She took hold of his
hand and they departed.
“It’s getting worse and worse on Saturday nights,”
Bridget apologised. “I’m struggling like mad to keep my two away from this. Andy’s
happy enough to stay in, he’s quite a loner, but I don’t think there’ll be any
stopping Kay in a couple of years. She’s one for adventure and dares.”
“Where are they tonight?” David asked, feigning casual
chat but with a strong hope they would be staying over at friends.
“At home.”
“Oh.”
“What about your two?”
“Both with friends.”
“Just as well you’re staying with us then, otherwise
you’d be a home alone.”
They left the main road and walked down a tidy street of
Victorian terraces. He followed Bridget along a small tiled path and entered
her house through a flaking navy blue door with a large brass knocker. They
stepped into an emerald green narrow corridor with subdued lighting, it was
like walking through a canopy of rain forest trees.
The interior style of her home could not be more
different to his, which suddenly seemed rather dull and austere. His walls were
spot the difference shades of white. Following Jane’s instructions he had
bought paint with names like almond white, orchid white, jasmine white, barley
white, nutmeg white, vanilla white, blah, blah, blah. Here there were violent
explosions of dark rich colours – scarlet, turquoise, orange, violet. Bare
polished floorboards were partly covered by oriental rugs; tops of lacquered
Chinese cabinets and carved Indian cupboards were heaped with books and
magazines. There were sculptures, too, smooth stone abstract shapes, skeletal
metal torsos. David assumed they were Roland’s works.
His neat kitchen was fitted from floor to ceiling with
units that hid everything except for precisely placed toaster, kettle,
microwave and the exhibition piece retro coffee maker. The kitchen where he now
stood had irregular shaped dressers and two untidy tables stacked full of cans,
crockery, bottles and spice jars. A haphazard row of saucepans ran a
considerable length along one of the walls.
“Sorry it’s a bit messy,” Bridget apologised, noticing
David’s inspection. She poured hot water into the cafetiere. “Leave the kids
alone for one evening and this is what you get.”
No two children, not even teenagers, would be able to
create this anarchy in one evening. But he accepted Bridget’s ironic
explanation, warmly drawn by this contrast to his own clinical existence. Bridget
pushed away some recipe books to make room for their mugs.
Andy and Kay came in. Andy was carrying an empty crisp
packet and a bottle of Red Bull. He put them in the dustbin. Kay put her
unfinished coke in the fridge before turning to Bridget and David.
“Hi mum, hello fire man. Have you had a good time?”
David smiled. “Hello, Kay. Yes we have, thank you.”
“You should be in bed Kay,” Bridget ordered.
“Yeah, I know. I’m going.” She turned to David. “I was
hoping to see you again, I’ve got a request.”
“And what’s that?”
“Could you burn down my school?”
“Don’t forget to say please,” Andy added.
“Tell me where it is and I’ll give it a go.”
“Enough requesting for one night,” Bridget intervened. “Bed
now, please.”
“OK, night mum.” Kay kissed her mother then turned to
leave.
“Manners, Kay. Say goodnight to David.”
“Goodnight to David.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“You’ll see him at breakfast,” Bridget continued, “he’s
staying over.”
Andy stayed put, hovering awkwardly. “What have you been up
to tonight?” Bridget asked.
“Bit of TV, some computing. Nothing much. I’m going to
read for a while, night mum.” Bridget got a reluctant kiss. “Night, David.” He
didn’t.
They sat drinking coffee and chatting for a while, touching
upon David’s frustration at work. He was about to talk about his café idea when
she stood.
“I’m shattered. Bed time.”
She led him upstairs to the spare room. He’d never seen a
black ceiling before and there were tiny specks of silver, too. Bridget noticed
his inspection. “It was Roland’s idea. Apparently the dots are the patterns of
the star constellations but I’ve never been able to see the resemblance. There
are some planets, too,” she added, pointing out a slightly bigger splodge inside
a circle that was meant to be Saturn. “Let me get you some stuff.”
He continued to gaze at the ceiling, looking for other
planets. He was still searching when Bridget returned with a toothbrush, towel
and an oversized tee shirt which she held up. “I don’t stock pyjamas, do you
want this?”
“No, I’ll be OK thanks.” The embarrassing morning after
the reunion came to mind. “Actually maybe I will.”
“We’re lazy on Sundays, breakfast is around 10. But of
course you’re welcome to come down whenever.” There was a dramatic pause. “Best
to wear trousers as well as this when you do though.” She was grinning broadly
as she handed it over. “The bathroom’s second on the left – there’s a trousers
dress code there too, I’m afraid.”
“OK. I get the hint.”
“I’ve enjoyed this evening David. Thanks.”
“Well I need to thank you, for the meal.”
“A pleasure.” She approached, put her arms round his neck
and kissed him. A gentle kiss, lip to lip. It was she who pulled away, he would
have remained locked in that embrace for approaching eternity. “Good night,
David.”
“Good night, Bridget. Bridget?”
“Yes?”
“About my list. I don’t think I explained myself well
earlier. The things I wrote down aren’t in themselves daft, it’s more the way I
expressed them that is.”
“Well at least they’re to the point, there’s no room for
misinterpretation.”
“I suppose you’re right,” David said, again missing the
tease until he looked up to the sardonic smile.
“See you in the morning, David.”
It was impossible to sleep with Bridget close by; the
same difficulty as the night after the reunion. He strained to hear any sound
from her bedroom and caught the click of her light switch as he lay in semi
darkness, a nearby street lamp casting subdued shadows across the room.
Logical thought was impossible when there was such an
intense longing to be in someone else’s bed a short distance away. The problems
at work dealing with Mary surfaced and then his attention drifted to failed
marriage and the struggle for an amicable divorce. He must have dozed for a
short while, waking with a start from a dream of the four of them, Jim and
Jane, Bridget and David, on holiday together and having a huge row by the hotel
swimming pool.
He pressed the button to activate his phone light. It was
1.29 am. Back to Bridget – work and Jane issues were insignificant in
comparison. Surely the kiss was an indication that she was interested in a
relationship. But she had drunk rather a lot, perhaps hers wasn’t much
different to the random snogs between the youngsters they had observed on
Muswell Hill Broadway. No, Bridget wasn’t a teenage reveller, she was a mature,
cultured woman. It must have meant something. But, another but, how much was
she still mourning the tragic loss of her husband? How much unwarranted guilt
remained for her part in the accident?
1.59 am. He would stare at his phone until the new hour
arrived then put it down. 2.00 am. If her children hadn’t been home perhaps he
would be in bed with her this very minute. To stifle his arousal he thought
about last month’s painful visit to the dentist. Somehow the dentist’s drill
had located a nerve not reached by the injections even though his mouth, chin,
tongue and left ear had remained numb for hours after the root treatment. The
focus on pain did the trick.
He picked up his phone again. 2.21 am. What next with
Bridget, another meal? He would insist on paying this time. Or maybe something
cultural like theatre or an art exhibition. Careful planning was needed to
ensure no kids were present wherever they ended up sleeping, though the assumption
that she would want to be alone with him at one of their houses was a big one. That
took him back into the loop. Was there any evidence that she was interested in
a relationship?
He was more comfortable in this house than in his own. He
needed colour on his walls. Which room would he do first? Probably the bedroom
though maybe the lounge.
2.58 am. This is silly, drop it until the morning. Stop
thinking. But wait a minute, there could be a pathway based on the action plan.
Assume all points listed were steps to the ultimate goal of having sex with
Bridget. Three short term objectives were accomplished – telling his mother
about the separation, tea at Harrods with Jabulani, and the first meeting with Bridget.
That left one incomplete action – finalising the divorce from Jane. Getting
that done would have a positive impact on the Bridget situation. Why wait for
Jane to take the lead? What was constituted as fair in dividing their assets? Does
fairness come into it bearing in mind she walked out? She was out to get what
she could, fair or not, as indicated by the bill for the clothes lost in the
shed fire. He began to construct two lists, one of assets for him, one for her.
It was a bit like counting sheep. Finally he slept.
“Morning, Rachel. It’s under the dust sheet, I don’t want
to get any paint on it.” David was in the hall on his way to the lounge,
carrying a large pot of emulsion, a tray and a roller. Rachel allowed him to
pass then followed him. The furniture had been stacked and covered in the
centre of the room. Plastic sheeting protected the floor and a ladder rested
where the television once stood. David opened the lid and poured paint into the
tray. He placed it on the ladder platform then climbed up two rungs, roller in
hand and paint brush upturned in the back pocket of jeans that had seen better
days and were dotted with an assortment of off-white splodges. He dipped the
roller into the tray and ran an untidy line across the wall close to the
ceiling.
“Are you mad?” Rachel exclaimed. “It’s orange.”
“Burnt umber actually.”
“Well it’s orange as far as I’m concerned.”
“Read the label on the tin. It’s burnt umber.”
“Sam,” Rachel called out. “Quick, come here.” They heard
a scamper downstairs then Sam entered. “What colour is this?”
Sam frowned, confused by the simplicity of the question. He
looked over to David, anxious not to give an incorrect answer. “Orange,” he
declared meekly.
“Not according to dad. He reckons it’s burnt something or
other. Which of course is hardly the point. Our living room is being turned
into, I don’t know, a headache inducing hippy hideout. Dad, will you stop
painting and listen?”
David paused, roller at the ready. It was surprisingly
quick to do, but would need a second coat. The big decision was whether to do
one wall in this colour or all four. He looked down at his two children. “I’m
listening.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I feel like a change.”
“But why not one of the colours we usually have?”
“Rachel, I didn’t realise how conservative you are. I
want to be bold, to try something completely different. Why not make some tea?”
He applied another line of burnt umber. The previously applied paint was
already drying – it was darker.
“No I fuc, no I won’t. I’m going to have to watch telly
on the computer.” She left the room and marched upstairs.
“I’ll make tea, dad.”
“Thanks, Sam. Maybe some toast, too.”
David continued painting, humming favourite songs as he
worked. He’d do all four walls to recapture the spirit of Bridget’s house with
its dominant dark colours and moody, shadowy spaces. He’d barely started the
second one when Sam came in with tea and toast.
“I’m not sure about this colour, dad.”
“Nor am I to be truthful, but never mind.”
He set the roller down on the near empty tray and sat on
the floor with his son to eat and drink. “I suppose we’ll get used to it,” the
diplomatic youngster suggested.
David finished his tea and sprang up. “Thanks, Sam. I’d
better get going before the roller dries out.” He added paint to the tray,
shifted the ladder round and resumed painting. He was all set to start the
fourth wall when there was a ring at the doorbell.
Rachel called out. “I’ll go, it’ll be Daisy for me.”
It was Jane. David heard her announce that she’d
forgotten her key. There was no response from Rachel; he heard his daughter head
back upstairs.
Jane was standing by the lounge door. “What are you
doing, have you gone quite mad?”