Ben McPherson - A Line of Blood

‘What time is it? And don’t say twat in front of Max.’

Max pushed his tongue hard against his cheek and made a two-tone mm-mm sound.

‘See, you’re corrupting my wee boy, Fab5.’ Twat was the right word, though.

‘It’s six twenty-five, Dad,’ said Max.

‘Run, Alex,’ said Fab5. ‘Run like the wind.’

It wasn’t till I was on Drayton Park that I saw the scarves and the hamburger boxes, and realised it was match day at the Arsenal. Even weaving through the side streets, I couldn’t avoid the football completely. I made the Sacred Cock at five to, but I’d half-run the last five hundred metres.

I ordered a pint of Flemish.

‘Hello, Gorgeous. What’s got you so hot and bothered?’

‘Oh, Dee. Hi.’

‘See, I blend in. Let me get that for you, hmm? Have you been running?’ She chucked a fifty at the barman.

‘Yes. You got me.’

‘You’ve got that freshly fucked man-of-the-city thing going on. Didn’t pull you out of bed, did I?’

‘I wish.’

‘So do I, Gorgeous. So do I.’

‘Do you kiss Middle England with that mouth, Dee?’

‘No, Gorgeous. First rule is never swear on the telly. And it’s all of England, you know. And Wales, and Northern Ireland. And, oh you know, those funny little people up north.’

‘Yeah, my mum loves you.’

‘Not your dad?’ She mimed a hurt little pout, shaking her shoulders, and for a moment her breasts had me in their forcefield: the dangerous ravine of cleavage, the smooth milk-white vastness. She made a show of following my gaze and gave a mock-seductive sigh. ‘Bad boy, Gorgeous. Caught looking.’

‘I was just wondering …’

‘Yes …’

‘… whether that was part of your clothing range?’

‘Nice recovery, Gorgeous. Sure that’s what you were thinking?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Because I could have sworn …’

‘I’m happily married, Dee, but if I wake up single tomorrow, you’re first on my list.’

‘And you think that choice lies with you. That’s so sweet, Gorgeous. So terribly tousled and sweet. And you would absolutely be second on my list …’

She insisted I match her drink-for-drink. We got quietly drunk in a corner, forgot to go upstairs to watch the comedy. I didn’t want to sleep with her any more than she wanted to sleep with me, but there was something so charismatic and so pretty and so direct about her that I started to understand why Middle England loved her so much. And I was flattered that she was flirting with me over her large glass of Chenin Blanc. Flattered, too, that she wanted to work with me. It would have been bad manners not to flirt back.

On my third pint of Flemish she got me on to Max. I pulled a photo from my wallet.

‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘Gorgeous begets gorgeous. Is his mother very beautiful?’

‘I think so.’

‘I’ll bet. Call your hot wife. Get her down here. And your son, if he’s still up.’

‘He goes to bed at nine.’

‘Not a showbiz kid, then?’

‘No.’

‘How very wise.’

And anyway, I thought, Millicent wouldn’t like this. Whatever this is. However innocent this is, Millicent wouldn’t like it at all. She doesn’t mind, she says, the arms across the shoulders, the drinks after work, and the nuzzling goodbyes. But she’s stopped coming out with me, and lies, instead, reading into the small hours. She’s always awake when I come home.

‘It’s the industry,’ I say, ‘it’s just what we do. No one’s screwing. Not since the 90s.’

‘Sure,’ she says. ‘I get that. Did I even say I mind? I don’t mind, Alex.’ But maybe this is my equivalent of out, thinking . Maybe it’s that part of me that’s unreachable to Millicent. Because she minds . I know she minds.

At half past eight I tried to decide what to do about Millicent’s radio programme. If I left at nine thirty I could hear the end of it, and be in for when Millicent got home. Perhaps I could catch the beginning of it on the download. I could check that Max was safely asleep.

At ten past nine I explained that I had to go.

‘But Gorgeous,’ she said, ‘we’re getting to know each other. Don’t you want us to know each other, Alex?’

‘Of course I do, Dee. Of course.’

‘That smile of yours,’ she said. ‘It’s terribly beguiling. Your wife is a lucky woman. Can she really not share you with me just a little more? Bit harsh of her, don’t you think?’

‘It’s not her,’ I said, ‘it’s me.’

We’re under such strain.

I had to be there.

‘And after all, Alex,’ said Dee. ‘After all I am technically your employer. Am I not? Because no me, no show.’ She put her right hand on her breastbone, and gave an ironic little pout. I laughed, but her words had a strained quality that told me I would be unwise to leave.

Over Dee’s fifth glass of wine, and my fifth pint of Flemish, she asked me, ‘So I’m wondering a little about your approach to fidelity, Gorgeous. How absolute is it?’

‘It’s very absolute. Absolutely absolute since I met Millicent. Thirteen years so far.’

‘And yet you make it sound like some twelve-step programme. Each day a new day in your struggle with the demon pussy. Were you always such a gorgeous absolutist?’

‘Maybe not.’

‘Do you know what?’ she said. ‘You’re going to tell me all about what a naughty boy you used to be.’

I have a memory of Dee’s hand on my knee, and of five Flemishes becoming eight. I spoke of my lapses as a younger man, and of my regrets. Dee was a good listener, and I was glad to be talking about something that wasn’t the neighbour. She teased, probed and massaged the information from me. I’m certain that I didn’t make a pass at her, nor she at me, but I don’t remember much more than the hand, the smile, and her boundless, limitless breasts. Fecund, fecund, fecund.

I did not tell Dee that I couldn’t go to the States with her. I had decided that I was going. Did June arrest me? No. Did June caution me? No. Did she politely but firmly ask me not to go? Yes, and I would let June down just as gently. I was going to America.

I got home at twelve, offended Fab5 by trying to pay him, checked that Max was asleep, and vomited three times into the bath.

Where was Millicent?

I sat, scooping chunks from the bath into the toilet. Then I blasted the bath with the shower attachment. The smell grew worse, and I realised I had transformed my gastric fluids into an easily absorbed aerosol suspension, shrouding the bathroom in a delicate mist of puke. But at least the bath looked clean now.

I lay down fully clothed on the bed, got my phone from my pocket. I dialled her number, got voicemail, was just smart enough to remember not to leave a Flemish-amplified message. I tried to picture her; I missed her; I wanted her body beside me, around me. But the Flemish in my veins kept distorting the signal, sending me Rose’s narrow shoulders and Dee’s endless breasts: I couldn’t find Millicent’s face through the electric fog of shash, ache for her as I might.

In a small metal box in a drawer on my side of the wardrobe I keep letters from the women in my past: the letters serve as a warning; I read them when I am tempted.

Max was standing in the bedroom with coffee. He had chosen my favourite mug. He was dressed, he had tucked in his shirt, and he had combed his hair with water.

‘Morning, Dad.’

‘Morning, Max.’

‘I made you some coffee because it’s eight o’clock.’

‘Thanks.’ He handed me the cup.

I sniffed the coffee. It smelled wrong. Boiled. I put the cup down on the bedside table.