It Had to Be You (15 page)

An ambulance completed Ealing’s repertoire of traffic noises.

‘That ambulance makes your point,’ said Mike. ‘Tension stalks the streets of the city today.’

Mike talked about his family, how Melanie had turned against him, how she had turned their two children against him, how he had given up on seeing them, how it felt like having one of his legs chopped off. James told him about the new development over Charlotte, his hopes, his fears, his joy, his pain.

James had the feeling that there was something important about this evening, but that it was slipping away on a tide of alcohol. Well, never mind. The slipping away was very pleasant. It seemed no time at all before they had finished their four pints and were setting off for their curry.

The restaurant was within walking distance, and he decided to leave the car where it was, and not drink with the meal. The meal would take quite a while and by the time it had ended he would be just about under the limit. With a bit of luck.

But the moment he got into the restaurant he was hit by a wave of curry nostalgia, and decided that a large bottle of Cobra would go down beautifully.

In his youth there had still been flock wallpaper and bad photographs of the Taj Mahal in Indian restaurants, but now they gleamed white and the walls were adorned with abstract art. He loved the smell of curry and incense, the bustle, the poppadums, the pickles, the eccentric spelling on the menus, the ordering too much, the sharing of the food. Mike was happy for him to order for them both. He ordered onion bhajis and tandoori king prawns, followed by chicken pathia, methi gosht, tarka dhal, boiled rice and peshwari naan. They ate themselves silly and drank two more large bottles of Cobra. James discovered that Mike admired Charles and was another Schumann man, liked Sibelius and Mahler, disliked Mozart and Strauss. They managed to argue passionately about modern art without resorting to fisticuffs. Indeed, they came to a mutual conclusion, that the debate about whether modern art was rubbish or not was itself rubbish. The point wasn’t whether it was good or bad but that the criteria for judging it had become so specialist that it was impossible for inverted commas ordinary close inverted commas people to know, so that, in the end, the hated comment of ‘I know what I like’, considered the ultimate badge of the philistine, became the only possible reaction of anyone who wasn’t an expert. They both agreed that they hated intellectual snobbery, yet believed that some work was bound by its nature to be elitist. They deplored the lack of gentleness in modern television drama, as opposed to period television drama. Why was the only choice between bonnets and blood? Was there nothing to say about the modern world that wasn’t violent?

‘How many pathologists a week do we see on television?’ asked James rhetorically. ‘I mean, we never come across murder in our own lives, do we?’

He exchanged a look with Mike, and he had a feeling that Mike’s look was meaningful, though he was far too drunk by now to know its meaning.

Mike forgot that he had a chip on his shoulder and James forgot that Mike was hard work and that he met him out of a sense of duty rather than of pleasure. They were truly living for the moment. A glass of Grand Marnier seemed just the thing to finish the evening off, and, if one, why not two?

James was not so drunk as to believe that it was safe for him to drive home. He would go by taxi, and drop Mike off on his way.

However, when Mike said, ‘I’ve got a rather odd drink that I’ve never dared to open, it’s Belgian gin, and it’s in a bottle shaped like a hand grenade – would you like to come in and try it?’, James was drunk enough to say ‘yes’.

There was no alarm to wake James at seven-thirty. He awoke suddenly, from a deep sleep in a dark cave shared with a monster. He was immediately in the grip of fear and tension. Something was very wrong.

Deborah was dead. Charlotte was living in a house in South London with a man named Chuck, and there was no Deborah to discuss it with. Ed had disappeared, and there was no Deborah to share the drama.

And today he was seeing Helen.

What time was it?

He tried to sit up. A steam hammer descended from the ceiling and crashed into his forehead. The room spun. His mouth tasted the way silage smelt.

How had he got home? Had he driven? Fear coursed through his heavy, aching frame.

He began to recall the events of the evening, how something odd had remained just out of reach, but how unexpectedly enjoyable it had been, how after being tired all day he had been full of energy, hadn’t wanted the day to end. He remembered going back to Mike’s place. A band of ice slipped down him from his neck to his feet as he recalled Mike producing a bottle shaped like a hand grenade. He shuddered. He began to shake. He felt very cold. His coldness frightened him. The fear made him sweat. The sweat froze on the icy tundras of his chest. He remembered them swearing eternal friendship. Mike had produced an autograph book, and asked him to sign it on the same page as someone called Alan Gilzean. Apparently he had played for Spurs and so this was a great honour. Oh, God, he’d signed it with his very expensive and much-loved gold Mont Blanc pen and Mike had said, ‘That’s right. Remind me of the times when I could afford nice things.’ But the moment must have passed. They had hugged with drunken affection on his departure. Oh and, thank God, he remembered the minicab.

He found that if he moved very very slowly the pain was just about bearable. Slowly, carefully, gradually, he twisted his body so that he could see his alarm clock. He couldn’t focus. When he did manage to focus, he wished that he hadn’t. The clock brought him bad news. It was already twenty-five to ten.

There was no way he was going to be well enough to be ready for lunch with Helen.

He had to be.

It must have been more than twenty years since he’d suffered a hangover like this. He’d only had one since he’d married Deborah. She had put her foot down. He’d discovered the steel that lay beneath the warmth. Everybody thought how wonderful she’d been, but … no, she had been wonderful. The steel had been sparingly used, wisely used, and always with affection.

He needed some steel now. He needed someone to pull him together. But this was all ridiculous. If Deborah was still here, he wouldn’t need the steel, because he wouldn’t be having lunch with Helen.

He shouldn’t even be thinking about Deborah. This was his great day, the beginning of the rest of his life, the first important step on the road to total happiness.

He was going to blow it.

Desperation gave him the courage to crawl out of bed. The floor was moving as if he was on a boat. He stood and waited for it to steady itself, then walked ever so cautiously to the tiny en-suite bathroom stolen from the Georgian proportions of the room. He bent down over the bowl of the two-flush eco-lavatory, retched, and knew that he wasn’t going to be able to be sick. He didn’t know if this was good news or bad news.

He walked downstairs, his head hurting at every step. He was still naked, and a streak of sunlight caught his body from the window on the landing. It was a cruelly lovely day sent by a mocking God.

He opened a cupboard door, got himself a glass, padded to the fridge-freezer, filled the glass. The first touch of the chilled water on his parched mouth gave him a huge shock of … he wasn’t sure if it was pain or pleasure. He gulped three glasses down as fast as he dared. The fourth he sipped. It was still not possible that he would be fit to have lunch with Helen, but it was now distinctly possible that he would live. He didn’t know if this was good news or bad news.

He forced himself to have a cold shower. This was make-or-break. The first shock of the icy water almost stopped him breathing, but it worked. By the time he’d shaved and cleaned his teeth and dried his hair, he felt almost human, and brave enough to try his second, and final, make-or-break move.

A bacon sandwich.

Deborah always had bacon in. He hunted for it and found it. How long had it been there? Should it be tinged with green? Did bacon usually smell that strong? His stomach turned. He felt a retch coming on. But it stopped.

This could be a very wrong move, but he wasn’t going to abandon the bacon yet. He put it in the frying pan and fried it gently in its own fat. He got a loaf from the bread bin. Should it be tinged with green? No. He would give it to the birds.

He ate three rashers of bacon, slowly, savouring each mouthful. Surely, if it was off, he wouldn’t be enjoying it this much?

He stood up, put his plate in the sink, decided that he wasn’t yet well enough to face washing up a greasy plate, put the plate in the dishwasher, alongside plates that had been there for almost a week, made himself a cup of black coffee, and went upstairs to get dressed.

He wouldn’t have described himself as ‘in the pink’, but he felt so much better than he had any right to feel that he was being carried along on a wave of relief that was growing into exhilaration. Suddenly, however, just as he was beginning to feel safe, he had a very disturbing experience. He was looking at his array of shirts, and was about to choose a bright red one, when he sensed that Deborah was looking over his shoulder and frowning. He went cold all over again. He knew that she wasn’t, it was just a lingering effect of the hangover, but it was deeply disturbing. He chose a sober dark green shirt, and forced himself to turn round to see … nobody.

He came out in a sweat and had to take another shower. He was running out of time, and he would have to get a taxi to take him to his car which was hugely out of his way.

He’d have to ring Helen. He really didn’t want to, it would somehow spoil the clarity of the moment when they would meet, but he had to.

In fact the phone call went well.

‘Darling, I’m going to be half an hour late.’

‘No problem.’

Easy-peasy.

Then Philip rang.

‘Just wanted to see if you needed company.’

‘That’s so kind, Philip. Actually … I hope this doesn’t sound awful … but … it’s all been so hectic … I just want to be alone. I need a Greta Garbo day.’

‘I understand.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely. Well, I’m here if you want me, James.’

‘Thanks.’

Several minutes passed before he could ring off. He couldn’t say, Sorry, Philip, I’m going to be late for my lover.

At last he could put the phone down. It rang again immediately.

‘Just wanted to make sure you’re all right.’

‘That’s so kind, Charles. Where are you?’

‘Trieste. Just flown in from Helsinki. I did the Schumann there last night, told them it was for Deborah.’

‘Thank you. Thank you, Charles. That’s … very touching.’

‘The Finns went wild. I felt very emotional.’

‘Thank you so much, Charles. Look, you’d better ring off. The call must be costing you a fortune.’

What a ridiculous thing to say. Charles was loaded. But he had to get him off the phone. He was going to be so late.

At last Charles rang off.

Thank goodness, he found a taxi almost immediately. He sat in silence. His head was beginning to hurt again. The movement of the cab was bringing back an echo of his queasiness. Thank goodness the driver didn’t speak. He tipped him generously.

‘Oh, thank you, sir.’

‘That’s for not saying a word.’

‘Like that, is it, sir?’

‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

He leant against his car for a moment, letting the sun soak into his soul. As he set off from Ealing towards South Kensington he felt strong enough to switch the radio on.

Within seconds he was angry. Within a minute and a half he was shouting. A Church of England clergyman was describing his anguish over the election of women priests. He was going to have to become a Catholic. Suddenly a wave of anger swept the clouds from James’s head. He glowed in the hot sunshine of conviction. His thoughts had that clarity that’s in the air the morning after the gale has passed.

‘You tight-arsed prick,’ he shouted. ‘Whether global warming is going to destroy our world or not, while your God stands by and watches all his creations crumble, is almost irrelevant, because we’re doomed anyway if we don’t solve the population problem. We’re going to run out of resources sooner or later, and the Catholic Church, my good man, has guilt on its hands. But your little literal self-important conscience cares nothing about all this, cares only about its precious integrity, its puny narrow sexist cleanliness. The world needs inspiration, leadership, generosity. Women, that glorious breed who terrify you so much, can march with you and prove that religion still has a part to play in the salvation of the planet. But it’s written in the good book that they can’t be priests so it must be right, just as the fact that the world was created in six days must be right. I applaud you for knowing better than every scientist and expert in the whole world, you must be a very clever man, but your interpretation of spirituality is contemptible.’

That told him.

Anticlimax followed. He still had a bit of a headache. And he had that disturbing feeling that he would never be able to recall what he had said or say it half as well again. And, although he knew that it would not have been possible for him to say it except to the inside of his car, he felt sad, now that it had come out so well, that it had only been to the inside of his car. It had been utterly pointless. It was the story of his life.

They sat in a shady corner of the pub. Their knees touched. This wasn’t lunch. It was foreplay. All around them upper-middle-class London met, talked, exclaimed, kissed. The sun danced on the scrubbed pine tables. The newspapers were spread around, the pints and the glasses of wine were being sunk, people were reading the papers to see if they were wearing the right things, if they were thinking the right things, if they were in the right pub, if they had chosen the right wine, if they had booked the right place for their holidays, if they were sitting with the right sort of person.

There wasn’t a notice on the door of the pub, saying ‘
Beautiful people only
’. It wasn’t needed. It was sensed.

James had a distinct love-hate feeling for places like this, but today he felt only love. His anger had been spent on a hapless cleric who didn’t know that he was hapless. Today was the first day of the rest of his life. James Hollinghurst was in love. He had been in love before, and it had faded, but this love would not fade, this love was different.

There were difficulties ahead. But this Sunday he was in a bubble. This Sunday there were no difficulties.

Well, only small ones. The first sip of the Syrah Grenache, for instance. How, after last night, would his body react to the alcohol? To his relief, but also somewhat to his alarm, his body greeted it like an old friend, welcomed it in, and settled down with it for a long meeting.

James chose man food – warm black pudding salad and belly pork. Helen chose woman food – smoked salmon and chicken tagine with couscous. It was as it should be, for they were man and woman.

James caught himself on the verge of saying, ‘This is perfection.’ Luckily, he stopped himself in time. He knew that it was impossible to say, ‘This is perfection,’ without at least a touch of smugness, and that it is never perfect to be smug, so to say, ‘This is perfection,’ is to destroy that perfection instantly. He knew that even to think, ‘This is perfection,’ is to endanger that perfection. He knew that perfection could be sought, anticipated, expected. It could be remembered or forgotten. It could not be experienced. Perfection lived in the past and the future, not in the present.

But this day, this Sunday, to have spoken of perfection, how awful that would have been. Without the death of a good woman, this – if not perfection, this richly enjoyable moment – would not have been possible. A flicker of shame dimmed the sun for just a moment. There was no second ghostly appearance of Deborah, but she was there, she was with James for the rest of the meal, the main course, the coffee, the Armagnac that was the final pre-coital touch.

She was with James as he walked arm in arm with his beloved through the smiling streets around the Old Brompton Road, past the smokers spilling out onto the pavements outside the pubs, past the Labradors waiting patiently for their masters to finish their fourth pints. She was there, in the sunshine, and just for a moment she was the sunshine.

She was with him on the wide steps that led up to Helen’s apartment. The sun, through the stained glass of the double doors, was carpeting the stairs in blue and red. He walked just behind Helen, admiring her small, cheeky, exquisite bottom.

In the richness of his desire James forgot Deborah again, or thought that he did. She was not there as he slowly undressed Helen, kissed her bottom, her thighs, her bush, her breasts. Or was she?

She surely wasn’t with him as he entered Helen, his clean, circumcised prick long and broad and triumphant. Or was she?

He pumped and pushed, Helen began to moan, and then, slowly, like a punctured balloon, like a bubble caught in the hands, he felt the stiffness go out of him. He pumped harder, but now his penis was a sorry, shameful thing, he could hardly feel it, he couldn’t feel it at all, it was almost as if it had fallen off, was that possible?

It was a horrid feeling, pulling that flaccid thing out of her, like a stillborn baby. He shuddered in horror at himself and his unwelcome thoughts.

They lay side by side, touching each other, a million miles away from each other.

He said that word that he’d had to say so often lately but never before in his life under these circumstances. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled wryly deep inside his unsmiling self. He was beginning to think that it was his word of the week.

‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘That’s the first time that’s ever happened to me.’