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Authors: Deborah Moggach

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BOOK: Hot Water Man
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33

Shamime heard the
click of the bathroom switch. She lay still. Across the floor she heard the tap of his slippers. Fancy embroidered things, he had picked them up in Bangkok (‘along with something else', she had heard him laugh in the Gymkhana Club Card Room).

The bed creaked. He eased himself down beside her. He did it purposefully, but not quite loud enough to waken her should she really be asleep; already she knew these movements so well. Eyes closed, she lay facing the wall. She kept her breathing regular.

‘Sammy-ammy,' he whispered, not too loud; he was still doubtful. And he did not want to actually wake her up; he was decent enough.

He ran his finger over her shoulder. He was pressed gently against her nightdress, cupped around her back. His breath smelt of whisky and toothpaste.

‘Sam the sham,' he murmured. It saddened her, that he already suspected. He was moderately witty really, considering the company he kept. She should be grateful that he had turned out such a generally pleasant surprise. Girls adored him. With his looks he must never have had trouble like this before.

He touched her hip. There was a pause of some minutes. He did not try to push closer. He was gentler than he appeared in public.

‘Darling?' he murmured.

There was a long silence. A minute must have passed. She did not move, her cheek pressed into the sodden pillow.

Each night she lay here talking to Duke.
You can't reach me, not now. Did you ever feel you could? You reached me all right. But see? Nothing's changed.

He moved back. The sheet moved with him but she did not dare pull it back. She heard the rasp of the match as he lit a cigarette.

34

She turned her
head to and fro against the soaked pillow. Her insides were being dragged out.

‘We must push.' Dr Farooq's voice boomed, as if spoken through a metal tunnel.

‘More gas,' she grunted.

‘Just a little. We must push now.'

She grabbed the rubber mask and clamped it against her face, snorting it in. Deeply, but not deep enough. Voices echoed. Reddened shapes burst inside her head. She sucked into the mask. A hand tried to pull it away.

‘No,' said the voice, far off.

She gripped it greedily. Someone got it away this time.

‘Push, darling.' Donald's echoing voice. ‘Nearly there. Dr Farooq, is she okay?'

‘She's doing fine, just fine.'

Crimson explosions. Blackness, and burning pain. She was breaking.

‘One more push.'

‘A big one this time, darling.'

‘Now.'

She pushed. She was splitting. She yelled.

‘
Now.
Again. Hold her back, Mr Manley.'

She pushed. Between her legs the head pushed out; then a slippery gush.

There was a rustle of movement. She lay emptied and the others got busy. They had cut the cord so quickly. She could not see it, the doctor was in the way.

A faint creak, then a cry. Her heart kicked against her ribs.

‘Can I see?' She tried to sit up.

‘Mrs Manley, it's a beautiful girl.'

Her mother seemed to be there too, in a mask. How long had she been there? She and Donald could see the baby.

‘Oh quick,' cried Christine.

They pulled down their masks. They were smiling.

‘Bring Mrs Manley her daughter, nurse.'

Christine held out her arms. Tucked in a towel, her baby was given to her. Enough was showing to know.

Tears ran down Christine's cheeks.

‘What's the matter?' Donald's face swam in front of her. He turned to her mother.

‘Everyone does this,' said her mother. ‘I did. It's the great happiness and the relief. Am I right?' She looked at Christine, who nodded.

Read on for the first chapter of Deborah Moggach's brilliant new novel
Something to Hide

Pimlico, London

I'll tell you how the last one ended. I was watching the news and eating supper off a tray. There was an item about a methane explosion, somewhere in Lincolnshire. A barn full of cows had blown up, killing several animals and injuring a stockman. It's the farting, apparently.

I missed someone with me to laugh at this. To laugh, and shake our heads about factory farming. To share the bottle of wine I was steadily emptying. I wondered if Alan would ever move in. This was hard to imagine. What did he feel about factory farming? I hadn't a clue.

And then, there he was. On the TV screen. A reporter was standing outside the Eurostar terminal, something about an incident in the tunnel. Passengers were milling around behind him. Amongst them was Alan.

He was with a woman. Just a glimpse and he was gone.

I'm off to see me bruv down in Somerset. Look after yourself, love, see you Tuesday.

Just a glimpse but I checked later, on iPlayer. I reran the news and stopped it at that moment. Alan turning towards the woman and mouthing something at her. She was young, needless to say, much younger than me, and wearing a red padded jacket. Chavvy, his sort. Her stilled face, eyebrows raised. Then they were gone, swallowed up in the crowd.

See you Tuesday and I'll get that plastering done by the end of the week.

Don't fuck the help. For when it ends, and it will, you'll find yourself staring at a half-plastered wall with wires dangling like entrails and a heap of rubble in the corner. And he nicked my power drill.

Before him, and the others, I was married. I have two grown-up children but they live in Melbourne and Seattle, as far away as they could go. Of course there's scar tissue but I miss them with a physical pain of which they are hopefully unaware. Neediness is even more unattractive in the old than in the young. Their father has long since remarried. He has a corporate Japanese wife who thinks I'm a flake. Neurotic, needy, borderline alcoholic. I can see it in the swing of her shiny black hair. For obvious reasons, I keep my disastrous love-life to myself.

I'm thinking of buying a dog. It would gaze at me moistly, its eyes filled with unconditional love. This is what lonely women long for, as they turn sixty. I would die with my arms around a cocker spaniel, there are worse ways to go.

Three months have passed and Alan is a distant humiliation. I need to find another builder to finish off the work in the basement, then I can re-let it, but I'm seized with paralysis and can't bring myself to go down the stairs. I lived in it when I was young, you see, and just arrived in London. Years later I bought the house, and tenants downstairs have come and gone, but now the flat has been stripped bare those early years are suddenly vivid. I can remember it like yesterday, the tights drying in front of the gas fire, the sex and smoking, the laughter. To descend now into that chilly tomb, with its dust and debris – I don't have the energy.

Now I sound like a depressive but I'm not. I'm just a woman longing for love. I'm tired of being put in the back seat of the car when I go out with a couple. I'm tired of internet dates with balding men who talk about golf –
golf
. I'm tired of coming home to silent rooms, everything as I left it, the
Marie Celeste
of the solitary female. Was Alan the last man I shall ever lie with, naked in my arms?

This is how I am, at this moment. Darkness has fallen. In the windows of the flats opposite, faces are illuminated by their laptops. I have the feeling that we are all fixed here, at this point in time, as motionless as the Bonnard lady in the print on my wall. Something must jolt me out of this stupor, it's too pathetic for words. In front of me is a bowl of Bombay mix; I've worked my way through it. Nothing's left but the peanuts, my least favourite.

I want to stand in the street and howl at the moon.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Epub ISBN: 9781446485439
Version 1.0

4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3

Vintage, an imprint of Vintage Publishing,
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA

Vintage is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at
global.penguinrandomhouse.com
.

Copyright © Deborah Moggach 1982

Deborah Moggach has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published in Great Britain in 1982 by Jonathan Cape
Published by Vintage 2006

www.vintage-books.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

BOOK: Hot Water Man
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