The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim (26 page)

‘Of course. I’ll be on the ferry at five o’clock tomorrow. No question.’

‘Good. That’s what I want to hear.’ She seemed to be on the point of saying goodbye, but asked me one more question: ‘How’s the video diary coming along?’

I hadn’t shot anything, needless to say, apart from that footage of my father’s block of flats in Lichfield, and the service station at Abington.

‘Fantastic. Well, of course, I’ve mainly been saving it for the boat journey, and the islands themselves. But what I’ve got so far is pretty good as well.’

‘Great. I knew I could rely on you, Max.’

‘Where are you?’ I asked. For some reason I had the sense that she wasn’t calling from home.

‘I’m in the office. Just having a bit of a conference with Alan. Yeah, working late. We’ve got a few things to … iron out.’

On that slightly enigmatic note, she hung up. As I put my phone away, I noticed that a little warning sign had come up on the screen to tell me that the battery was almost empty. Better recharge it tonight. Meanwhile, Alison gave me a questioning look as she delicately placed a sliver of beetroot between her teeth.

‘That was Lindsay,’ I explained. ‘From Head Office. Keeping tabs on my progress.’

‘Or lack of it,’ said Alison.

I smiled. ‘Well, there’ve been quite a few delays so far,’ I admitted. ‘Yesterday I saw Caroline again. For the first time since she … walked out.’

‘And how was that?’

For once the right word came easily. ‘Painful.’

For the second time that evening, Alison reached out and touched me, this time laying her hand gently on mine.

‘Poor Max. Shall we talk about it? I mean, talk about why she left. I’d heard a few things, but I don’t know if they’re true.’

‘What have you heard? Who from?’

‘From Chris, mainly. He said that when they went on holiday with you a few years ago, things were … well, a bit tense.’

‘That’s true. It wasn’t a very successful holiday. In fact all sorts of things went wrong. Joe had this nasty accident, and …’

‘I know. Chris told me all about it.’

‘I think he blamed me for it, in a way. At any rate, we haven’t spoken to each other since.’

‘I know. He told me.’ Her voice became lower, more earnest. ‘Look, Max, can’t you and Caroline patch things up? Everyone goes through difficult times.’

‘Do they?’

‘Of course they do. Philip and I are going through one now.’

‘Really? In what way?’

‘Oh, he’s always travelling. He barely talks to me when he’s here. Can’t stop thinking about work. But business is everything with him, I knew that when I married him. That was part of the deal, and I suppose that, looking at things from a purely material point of view, I’ve done very nicely out of it. You know, you have to make compromises. You have to … settle for things, sometimes. Everybody does it. Couldn’t you and Caroline see that? I mean – it’s not as if either of you was unfaithful or anything, is it?’

‘No, that’s true. If that’s all it had been about, things would probably have been easier.’

‘So what
was
it about?’

I took a sip of wine – actually, more of a gulp – while I wondered how to put this.

‘There was one thing she said to me, before she left. She told me that the problem was me. My own attitude, towards myself. She said that I didn’t
like
myself enough. And that if
I
didn’t like myself, other people found it difficult to like me as well. She said it created a negative energy.’

Before Alison had a chance to reply, our main courses arrived. Her fillet of John Dory looked pale and delicate next to my slab of blood-red venison. We ordered another bottle of wine.

‘I won’t be able to drive after this,’ I said.

‘Take a taxi,’ said Alison. ‘You could probably do with a break from driving, after the last couple of days.’

‘True.’

‘Why exactly
are
you driving to Shetland, anyway?’ she asked.

And so I began telling her about Trevor, and Guest Toothbrushes, and Lindsay Ashworth. I told her about Lindsay’s ‘We Reach Furthest’ campaign, about the four salesmen all setting off in different directions for the extreme points of the United Kingdom, and the two prizes we were supposed to be competing for. And then I got sidetracked and told her about my detour to Lichfield to see my father’s flat, how eerie and desolate it had felt; about Miss Erith, and her facinating stories, and her sadness at the passing of the old ways of life; her weird, solemn, almost inexpressible gratitude when I had made her a gift of one of my toothbrushes. I told Alison, too, about the bin liner full of postcards from my father’s mysterious friend Roger, which was now in the boot of my car, and the blue ring binder full of my father’s poems and other bits of writing. Then I told her about driving on from Lichfield and stopping in Kendal to see Lucy and Caroline, and how I’d planned to get the ferry from Aberdeen the next day, but Mr and Mrs Byrne had persuaded me to come to Edinburgh instead.

‘Well, Max,’ she said, holding my gaze for a few moments. ‘I’m glad you came, whatever the reason. It’s been too long since we saw each other – even if it’s only happened because my parents steamrollered us into it.’

I smiled back, uncertain where this was leading. Rather than responding to everything I had just told her about my journey, it felt as though Alison was getting ready to move the conversation into a different gear altogether; but then she seemed to think better of it. She arranged her knife and fork neatly on her plate and said:

‘We’re a strange generation, aren’t we?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean that we’ve never really grown up. We’re still tied to our parents in a way that would have seemed inconceivable to people born in the 1930s or 1940s. I’m fifty, now, for God’s sake, and I still feel that I have to ask my mother’s …
permission
, half the time, just to live my life the way that I want to. Somehow I still haven’t managed to get out from under my parents’ shadow. Do you feel the same?’

I nodded, and Alison went on:

‘Just the other day I was listening to a programme on the radio. It was about the Young British Artists. They’d got three or four of them together and they were all reminiscing about the first shows they’d done together – those first shows at the Saatchi Gallery, back in the late nineties. And not only did none of them have anything interesting to say about their own work, but the main thing they talked about – apart from the fact that they’d all been shagging each other – was how “shocking” it had been, and how worried they were about what their parents were going to say when they saw it. “What did your mum say when she saw that painting?” one of them kept being asked. And I thought, you know, maybe I’m wrong, but I’m sure that when Picasso painted
Guernica
, with its graphic depictions of the horrors of modern warfare, the main thing going through his mind wasn’t what his mum was going to say when she saw it. I kind of suspect that he’d gone beyond that some time ago.’

‘Yes – I’ve been thinking the same thing,’ I said, eagerly. ‘Take Donald Crowhurst: he already had four kids when he set out to sail around the world, even though he was only thirty-six. You’re right, people were so … so
grown-up
in those days.’

‘What days?’ Alison asked; and I realized, of course, that she had no idea who Donald Crowhurst was.

Perhaps it was a bad idea to start telling her the story. Or rather, it would have been a good idea to tell her the story of Donald Crowhurst, if I could have stuck to it. But before long, I was no longer telling her about his doomed round-the-world voyage, but explaining all the parallels I had started to see between his situation and mine, and how strongly I was coming to identify with him. And although she didn’t seem to understand more than about half of what I was saying, I did notice that she was starting to look even more worried than before.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘This man Crowhurst,’ said Alison. ‘He set out to sail around the world even though he was totally unequipped for it; he realized he couldn’t manage it so he decided to fake the whole thing; and then he realized he couldn’t go through with that either, so he went mad and committed suicide – is that right?’

‘More or less.’

‘And now you’re starting to identify with this person, are you?’

‘A bit, yes.’ All at once I had the distinct feeling that I was stretched out on a psychiatrist’s couch. ‘Look, I’m not going mad, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s just that you’re clearly tired, you’ve been spending a lot of time alone, you’ve even started talking to your SatNav and tomorrow you’re heading off to one of the remotest areas in the country. Can you blame me for hearing a few alarm bells?’

‘I’m fine. Really.’

‘It may have been a long time ago, Max, but I did once qualify as a psychotherapist.’

‘Yes, I’m well aware of that.’

‘So I
know
something about what you’re going through. I know about depression.’

‘Well – thank you for your concern.’

‘Where are you staying tonight?’

‘I don’t know. I was going to find the nearest Travelodge.’

‘No way. Absolutely not. Come back home with me. You can sleep in one of the spare rooms.’

‘So what are you doing, exactly – putting me on suicide watch?’

Alison sighed. ‘I just think you need a good night’s sleep, and a late start in the morning, and maybe a few home comforts along the way.’

I tried vainly to think of objections, but all I could come up with was: ‘My suitcase is in the car.’

‘Fine. We’ll go to the car, get your suitcase, and take a cab back to my place. Nothing could be simpler.’

And put like that, it did sound the most sensible thing to do.

In the cab, an unexpected thing happened. We were sitting side by side in the back, a decent number of inches between us, when Alison edged up closer to me, leaned against me, and rested her head on my shoulder.

‘Hold me, Max,’ she whispered.

I put my arm around her. The cab rattled its way over North Bridge, past the railway station.

‘I can still see what you’re doing here,’ I said.

‘Mmm?’

‘This is some technique you were taught, isn’t it, as part of your training? You’ve wounded my ego, by making me feel as though I need help. Now you’re trying to build it up again, by making me feel strong and protective.’

She looked up at me. Her eyes glinted teasingly in the dark. Her slightly dishevelled auburn hair would have been close enough to stroke, had I wanted to.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I’m really pleased to see you, and I don’t see anything wrong with two old friends, who’ve known each other since they were kids, giving each other a friendly hug.’

It felt like more than a friendly hug to me, but I didn’t say so.

‘I wonder if Philip will be back,’ she murmured.

‘Are you expecting him tonight?’

‘If he sticks to his schedule, yes.’

‘Will he mind that I’m here?’

‘No. Why should he?’

‘Do you miss him when he’s away?’

‘I get very lonely. I’m not sure that’s the same as missing him.’

Suddenly, and rather to my own surprise, it occurred to me that it would be nice if Alison’s husband didn’t come home tonight. I held her a little closer than before, and she nestled comfortably against me. I let my lips brush against her hair and breathed in its warm, inviting scent.

Was it actually going to happen, more than thirty years after it should have happened? Was I going to sleep with Alison at last? Was I being offered one, final, redeeming chance? Part of me yearned for this resolution; another part of me started to panic, to look around for excuses. And it wasn’t necessary to look very far.

Of course – Alison was married. Married with children. If I wasn’t careful, I was about to play the most contemptible role of all: the role of homebreaker. For all I knew, this bloke Philip might be the nicest, gentlest, most decent man on earth. Utterly devoted to his wife. He would be crushed, devastated, if anyone were to come between them. So what if he spent too much time at work? That didn’t make him a bad husband, or a bad father. In fact it made him a good husband, and a good father, because his motivation, obviously, was to provide the best possible standard of living for his beloved family, now and in the future. And here I was, planning to turn this paragon of fatherly pride and marital loyalty into a cuckold!

I withdrew my arm from Alison’s shoulder, and sat up straight. She looked across at me curiously, then sat up as well, tidying her hair and re-establishing those decent inches of space between us. We were almost home, in any case.

Once inside, she took off her coat and led me into the kitchen.

‘Do you want a coffee?’ she said. ‘Or something stronger?’ When I hesitated, she informed me: ‘I’m having a Scotch.’