A Spring Affair (16 page)

‘There’s a sleeping bag up here,’ said Lou.

‘
My
sleeping bag? The one I use for camping?’ Phil yelled.

‘Use? Phil, the last time you went camping was before you met me,’ reminded Lou. ‘These days, your idea of roughing it on holiday would be only one Michelin star and no malt in the mini-bar.’

Phil opened his mouth but no counter-argument came bounding out so he hung redundantly around the bottom of the steps whilst she climbed up.

Lou switched on the loft light and saw that the sleeping bag was right by her feet. It smelled a bit, having been stored in the forgotten air up there, but it was dry and would adequately fulfil the purpose of a temporary dog bed.

She hadn’t been up to the loft for over two years now, into this final resting-place for things she didn’t want to
think about. As soon as she saw the shadowy shapes up there again she knew that there were ghosts here she must exorcise. She needed to finally move on–and to be able to do that, she needed a hell of a lot of bin-bags and yet another empty skip. For now, though, there was a distressed dog to sort out.

‘You’re cooking chicken at this time of night?’ shrieked Phil, watching open-mouthed in disbelief as Lou cut up fillets and poured some rice to boil in a saucepan. ‘Want me to toss it up a chuffing side salad as well?’

‘Phil, just go to bed,’ said Lou wearily, resisting the urge to point out that he was already being a big enough tosser as it was. His sniffling and swearing were starting to annoy her. He could be such a wimp sometimes. Quite often actually, when she thought about it.

Phil had another aggressive sneezing fit which made up his mind for him. This was his house, after all.

‘No, no, I’m sorry, it’s not staying here. It can go in the garage.’

‘No, he can’t,’ said Lou quietly but firmly.

‘Yes, it can, Lou!’

‘No, he can’t!’

She matched him for intensity if not volume, but she was aware that she had now strayed into the sort of argument that she always lost, the type where strength of will was involved. Then she would end up bloody and hurt as Phil fought his corner with low blows about her weight, thinner women, letting herself go.

His voice spiralled to a scream.

‘I’m not letting you keep that animal in my house and that’s that!’

Let?

It was that word again.

Lou’s mind wagged her own words back at her.

‘How on earth did a woman get into a state where a man was “letting” her do things?’

LET
?

Like a long-dormant volcano stirring into life, Lou’s inner magma suddenly started to rise and spit. She couldn’t have stopped its course to the surface if she’d tried.

‘Oh, by the way, I meant to tell you, I bumped into Deb,’ she said with calm defiance. ‘And we had a coffee together. A few coffees together, actually. And it’s very possible I may be going into business with her, same plan as before. Our coffee-house, do you remember?’

‘What?’ said Phil, wondering for a moment if he was asleep and having a bad dream. Either that or he was experiencing a psychotic flashback as a result of taking some speed back in the eighties.

‘I said I bumped into Deb…’

‘I heard you the first time. Well, I’d give up any plans of seeing
her
again or—’

Lou spun on him. ‘Or what?’

‘Eh?’

‘Or what, Phil?’ Lou snapped. She was looking at him in a way that reminded him of when they were courting; in those days, she had a fire that he had loved to poke into even more flames. It was only when he realized that the blaze was getting away from his control that he’d put it out. Phil suddenly remembered who British Racing Green Eyes reminded him of.

He chain-sneezed.

‘Oh, I’m going back to bed,’ he said grumpily. He’d give her a fight any night of the week and win it because he knew exactly what to say to make his wife start sobbing into a hankie and saying her sorrys, but presently he was debilitated by itching eyes and a nose full of snot. He thudded heavily back upstairs, his head bursting.

Lou wrapped up her loudly ticking travel alarm clock in a tea towel and put it under the sleeping bag for Clooney. Her dad had done that for Murphy on his first few puppy nights at home, to give him the comfort of a simulated fellow heartbeat. How had she ever once thought that Phil was like her dad, Lou wondered, sitting by Clooney’s side and stroking his damp quiet head as she waited for his supper to finish cooking.

Upstairs, Phil was lying awake and thinking, So that’s what she’s been up to–meeting that bitch Deb again. Not only that, but she had been
lying
about having dogs in their house–
his
house, actually–when she knew he was allergic to the fucking horrible flea-ridden things. And she had started refusing him sex. And she’d burned his curry.
Who does my wife think she is?

There was only room for one dominant person in their marriage. It was in danger of losing the equilibrium it needed to survive, so Lou Winter, he decided, needed bringing back into line. And Phil Winter knew the very best way to make that happen.

Phil washed, dressed and went down to the kitchen for a quick pre-work coffee, totally forgetting about the presence of Scooby Doo. On seeing it, he spasmed backwards, sending himself careering into the table and chairs. Scruffy smelly bastard hound asleep on his best sleeping bag!

He shouted up to Lou, who was just putting on some make-up. She hadn’t got to bed until nearly three o’clock and it was only seven o’clock now. There were black circles under her eyes that needed attention. Thank goodness it was Wednesday and she wasn’t at work today.

‘Get rid of this dog quick, Lou!’ Phil said.

Clooney opened up one eye, viewed him briefly and closed it again. This small action totally infuriated Phil. How dare the bloody thing look at him like that! In his own kitchen as well. Who did it think it was? The Duke of Sodding Edinburgh?

He grabbed his jacket and shouted upstairs again. ‘I’ll get my breakfast at work.’

He knew that would irk her, denying her the chance of cooking his bacon. He had almost skirted around the
thing
to go out of the back door when Clooney’s lips
pulled over his ferocious-looking teeth to do a yawn. He emitted a strange, unholy noise that made Phil’s bowels momentarily jerk.

‘Sweet Baby Jesus on a bike!’ he said, tearing off to the front door instead, and stamping out muttering and swearing loudly to himself.

In contrast, when Lou came downstairs, Clooney was up on his feet, tail wagging and the most pleased to see her that she could remember anyone ever being in recent times. She let him out of the back door where he did a dutiful wee, then he was back inside again for the attention of Lou and a warm towel. It was still lashing down outside and she dreaded to think what state he would have been in, left outside all night–and he would have been, if she hadn’t stood up to Phil in a way that had surprised even her. Then again, it was always easier to stand up for someone else–she’d always battled with Shirley Hamster that bit harder for bullying the little kids–the real test was standing up for yourself. Thanks to her not backing down for once, though, Clooney was warm and dry and breakfasting happily on more chicken and rice.

Lou was washing up when there was a firm knock at the door and, through the patterned glass there, she saw a big shape with black hair. Abandoning his meal, Clooney started whining and howling and getting very excited–and that was all the evidence Lou needed to know that it wasn’t the postman.

She had a quick panic about how she must look with her puffy, tired eyes. Making a quick adjustment to her hair in the kitchen mirror, Lou hastily checked that the zip on her jeans was in the ‘up’ position, then mentally
slapped herself. What was she doing? What did she care what he thought of her? Just let the man get his dog and then he could be out of her life again. Straightening her back, she went to open the door. But for all her outward composure, her heart was thumping a loud betrayal in her chest.

Clooney barged past her to get to Tom, who bent down and scrubbed him with his hand and said affectionate man-to-dog things like, ‘Hello, lad, how ya doing? Hello, boy.’

‘Come in out of the rain,’ said Lou, cursing herself but standing aside so he could enter. That damned politeness-override reflex again.

He walked in and tried to wipe his boots on the mat whilst Clooney fussed around him making pathetic ‘missed you’ whines. Tom Broom looked totally knackered. He had circles around his eyes that matched her own.

‘Thanks so much for taking him in,’ he said to Lou. ‘I didn’t get your message till I got into the office this morning. I’ve been out all night looking for him. A mastiff went for him on a job down in Ketherwood last night and chased him off.’

‘Ketherwood? That must be at least two miles away!’ said Lou. No wonder Tom was worried. They ate dogs in Ketherwood.

‘How he got here I’ll never know,’ said Tom, giving his adoring friend an extra hard scratch.

‘Would you like a coffee?’ asked Lou graciously.

‘Am I holding you up? You off to work?’

It would be unforgiveable, really, to pretend that all this had caused her a lot of trouble when it hadn’t, apart
from having to listen to Phil’s tantrum. But hang on–this guy needed bringing down a peg or two.

‘No, I took a day off,’ she said stoically, lying through her teeth.

‘Because of this? Oh, I’m so sorry!’

‘No, it’s perfectly all right. I couldn’t have left him, now could I?’ she smiled so sweetly that the sugar almost crystallized on her lips. ‘Please sit down, have a coffee.’

He sat down meekly at the table, Clooney at his side, head resting on his master’s knee. Lou got two cups and filled them from the hissing, spitting percolator.

‘White or black?’ she asked.

‘White, please. No sugar.’

‘Ah, me too,’ she said with a nice-lady-hostess laugh that rang a very false note.

The cup looked tiny in his large hand.

‘Thanks, I needed that,’ he said after a big glug. The rain was dripping off his hair. His jacket was so saturated that Lou just couldn’t stop herself from asking, ‘Look, why don’t you take your clothes off for a minute and get dry.’

Oh nuts!

‘Outer clothes, I mean. Your coat! Obviously not all of your clothes. That would be ridiculous…being naked…in my kitchen,’ Lou struggled, momentarily losing her upper hand.

‘Thanks,’ he said. He was doing that grin thing again as he slid off his coat and hung it over the radiator. She wished she hadn’t said anything now. Even her rescuing his dog didn’t stop him from thinking she was a living breathing joke.

Tom drained his cup and she poured him another
immediately. She would show him that she was a generous, benevolent being, far superior to someone who got their kicks making fun of others. Her hospitality would make him ashamed of trying to take the rise out of such a nice spiritually-generous person with his ‘I’ve-got-a-twin-no-I-haven’t’ puerile game.

‘I hope it didn’t cause any problems for you last night,’ said Tom. ‘I remember you saying your husband was allergic to dogs.’

‘No, he was fine about it,’ said Lou with a fixed smile.

Tom didn’t say that he had heard Phil’s little voice-over on her answering machine message, nor did he reveal that, as he was driving up The Faringdales estate, he was just in time to see a man slamming the door to number 1 and stomping over to his car issuing expletives to the cosmos. Tom had driven on and parked around the corner for five minutes until he was sure the immaculately groomed man had gone, for he had the distinct feeling they wouldn’t get on. It was pretty obvious that Clooney’s arrival at Lou’s house had caused her hassle that she wouldn’t admit to him. Plus, he wanted to get her on her own after what he had just seen parked outside her house.

‘I think I owe you an apology,’ said Tom.

‘Really, Clooney was absolutely no trouble at all. Don’t even think—’

‘I didn’t mean about that,’ said Tom, putting his cup down on the table.

‘Oh? Why would you think you owe me an apology then?’ asked Lou, her eyebrows raised to a perfectly innocent height.

‘Because you’ve got a full Harrison’s skip parked on your drive.’

Farts!
She had forgotten about that.

‘I wasn’t sure if I’d upset you with all that twin business. When I saw you’d defected to the enemy, it was obvious that I had.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ flustered Lou, convincing no one.

‘I
knew
there was something wrong when you walked out of the shop without waiting for that receipt,’ he said, ‘even though the last time I saw you and you said there wasn’t, I just
knew
it. And then, when I didn’t hear from you about any more skips…’

‘Another coffee?’ offered Lou, who couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘Thank you,’ said Tom, and then added softly, as she was pouring it, ‘I’m really sorry if you thought my joke went too far. I wasn’t laughing at you, not in a nasty way…’

‘Forget about it,’ said Lou, suddenly feeling a little silly.

‘I take up far more than my fair share of the world as it is–it wouldn’t be environmentally friendly of me to have a twin!’

‘Yes, of course not.’
Yes, of course not?

‘No twin, there’s just me and my sister Sammy. Well, my half-sister.’

‘Really, it’s fine.’

‘The shop is all mine as well as the skips. That’s what the T.U.B. stands for–Tom Broom, although everyone’s called the place the
Ironmonger’s Tub
since I put the sign up.’ He looked genuinely contrite.

‘So…what’s the U initial stand for then?’

‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to shoot you.’

‘Oh, why’s that?’

‘It’s one of those embarrassing names you just don’t want to admit to,’ Tom smiled, scratching at the back of his head in a nervous gesture.

‘Can’t be all that bad,’ said Lou.

‘If you promise not to laugh, I might just tell you,’ said Tom.

Lou crossed her heart.

He took a deep breath and then said, ‘Umberto.’

It wasn’t that funny but Lou laughed anyway because a) promising not to laugh automatically made her want to laugh and b) her insides felt like a pressure cooker that had wanted to burst open since he walked in with his big soggy coat on and tired eyes.

‘See, I told you that you’d laugh,’ said Tom with mock indignation.

‘I’m sorry, I’m only laughing because I’m not supposed to. It’s a nice name. Where does it come from? Do you have someone in the family called that?’

He leaned in conspiratorially. He has such a nice face, she thought. There was a bump on his nose and a slightly cauliflowered ear that old rugby games must have been responsible for. He was rough where she liked smooth, dark where she liked fair, big where she liked slight, not her type at all. So why was there a warmth spreading inside her chest?

‘My grandmother was Italian,’ he began. ‘She came over here when she met my grandfather.’

Gulp, you’re a quarter Italian! thought Lou.

‘And when she was sixteen, my mum went across to Italy to stay with the family for a holiday and met a guy called…’ He urged Lou to fill in the gap with a roll of his hands.

‘Umberto?’

‘Precisely. Need I say more? Signor Umberto Baci.’

‘Baci, that’s a nice name.’

‘It means “kisses” in Italian.’

Blimey, that was a bit of a conversation stopper. Lou swallowed. He was looking right at her, unblinking, his eyes grey as steel.
Jesus! Half-Italian. More than half. Double blimey
.

‘So…’ Lou gulped, ‘do you like pasta?’
Oh no–what a crap question!

‘
Sì, signorina!’
he said in an exaggerated accent.

Their gentle laughs linked and Lou topped up their cups with coffee, yet again. She nearly dropped the pot because her hands had gone all shaky.

‘Do…do you speak any of the language?’

‘Indeed I do,’ said Tom. ‘Do you?’

‘I did a year at college, but that was way back. I’ve been meaning to take another class for ages,’ said Lou, thinking, Another thing I let go of when I shouldn’t have.

‘You should. You could order your skips in Italian then. Can I have a skip tomorrow, Mr Broom?
Posso avere un cassonetto per domani, Signor Broom
?’

‘Yes, I will,’ Lou smiled. ‘It’s a beautiful language–so expressive.’
Il mio tesoro, ti amo
. Lou had a flash of being in bed with a big sweating man whispering passionate Roman endearments in her ear. She hoped her head wasn’t transparent.

‘Mum was never on the scene much so our grandparents brought us up and
Nonna
used to only speak Italian to us when we were together so she could force us to learn it. Sammy speaks it to the kids and we’ve been over
to visit the relatives a few times in Puglia, so we keep it nice and fresh.’

‘Lucky you. I’ve never been to Italy,’ said Lou with a heavy sigh.

‘You should go,’ said Tom, ‘it’s beautiful. Obviously it has its rough places, but the parts that are beautiful are really
bellisimi
.’

‘I should die if I didn’t go to Venice before I die,’ said Lou. ‘But my husband is more of a Spain man.’ Of course, Spain was beautiful too, but Phil wasn’t interested in any of the real Spain. He wanted to be surrounded by English speakers, hot sunshine, cold San Miguels and lots of cheap British food and entertainment in the bars whilst he was drinking those San Miguels.

‘You should have a change,’ said Tom.

‘Yes,’ said Lou, somewhat wistfully, but somehow she couldn’t see Phil snogging her in a gondola. Once he found out how much they cost to hire, that would be the end of that. As for flicking a coin over his shoulder into the Trevi fountain to guarantee they’d return–
Don’t be so sodding silly! I’d look a right fool. Besides, I don’t bloody want to come back!
She could hear him saying it now. She shook him out of her head. She didn’t want to think about Phil at the moment.

‘Your mum never married Umberto then?’ Lou asked.

‘Ah well, it seems that naughty Umberto was already married. A couple of years later, Mum played out exactly the same scene on a skiing trip to Norway with a guy called Sigi, which is why my sister is all blonde and dainty. We were brought up between my grandparents and my Uncle Tommy and Auntie Bella–they couldn’t have kids of their own. It was such a shame, they tried
for years and then there was my mum who only had to walk past someone and she was up the spout.’

Lou nodded understandingly. ‘Yes, that’s often the way of it.’

‘Am I going on too much?’ Tom asked suddenly, taking his signal from Clooney, who had removed himself to the sleeping bag where he flopped down with a bored grunt.

‘No, not at all,’ said Lou, who was thinking that it wouldn’t matter if he was expounding on the history of plastic injection moulding, it was just ashamedly nice to be near him.

‘Uncle Tommy built up the ironmongery business and ran a skip and cement sideline and when he died, he left it all to my sister Sammy and me. I bought her shares so now it’s all mine. She’s happy to help me out part-time, we work it around the kids.’ He smiled fondly. ‘She’s a good girl, is Sammy, she’s just finding that carrying this one is harder than all the others put together. They were so easy.’ He stopped, remembering what she had told him about her inability to have children and quietly cursing himself for his insensitivity. He drank some coffee.