Tony Parsons - Man And Wife

’Jesus Christ, Peg, you’ll split your head open.’

’Don’t swear, Harry. It’s very vulgar.’ She pulled a pack of Frosties from the shelf. I took them from her and threw them back. People were starting to stare. The way we stared when Ronan was getting smacked for his whining and his wanting.

’Now stop making a fuss, Peg, and let’s go home.’

I went to pick her up and place her back in the trolley, but she wriggled and shook. ’Don’t touch me, Harry. You’re not my father.’

’What did you say?’

’You heard me, I believe.’

I went to pick her up again but she took two steps backwards and raised her voice.

7 want my mummy. You are not my daddy. Stop acting like you are.’

An old lady with a basket containing two tins of cat food and a packet of Maltesers stopped to investigate.

’Are you all right, dear?’

’She’s fine,’ I said.

’Excuse me,’ said the cat lady. ’I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to the little girl.’

’He acts like he’s my daddy but he’s not,’ Peggy said, her eyes suddenly filling with self-pity. ’He’s really not. He’s just pretending.’

’Oh, here we go,’ I said. ’Here come the tears.’

’What an awful man you are,’ said the old girl.

The young pregnant mother and Ronan happened to be passing. Ronan had cheered up considerably. He was just finishing off a bag of California Roll-flavour crisps. ’Are you all right, darling?’ said his mum.

’She’s upset,’ said the old cat lady. ’She wants her mummy.’

’Who’s he when he’s at home?’ said the young mum, indicating me.

’I don’t think he’s anyone,’ said the old girl. ’Are you anyone? Are you her daddy?’

’Well, not exactly.’

’No, he’s certainly not,’ said Peggy, hugging the leg of Ronan’s mum. ’My daddy has a motorbike.’

The old lady smoothed her hair. Ronan stared at me with wary curiosity. Flakes of crisps were all around his mouth. Saving them for later, my mum would have said.

Then suddenly there was a store detective, all brown shirt and shaven head and biceps. ’What’s going on here then?’

’This is ridiculous,’ I said. ’We’re going home now.’

I made to pick up Peggy, but she recoiled as if I was approaching her with a bloodstained chainsaw in my hands.

’Don’t let him touch me!’

’He’ll never get you,’ said the old lady.

’I’d like to see him try it,’ said Ronan’s mum.

’Mum?’ said Ronan, starting to cry. You could see the masticated chunks of crisps in his mouth.

Til sort this out,’ said the store detective.

Then he was in my face, this crop-haired white boy with a sprinkling of acne running down his thick pink neck. His meaty hands pressed lightly against my chest. Over his shoulder I could see the old lady and the young mum with their arms around Peggy, all of them glowering at me.

’I need to have a word with you, sir,’ said the detective, taking my arm. ’In the supervisor’s office. Then we’ll see if the police need to be involved.’

I furiously shook him off. ’The police? This is nuts.’

’Are you this child’s father?’

’I’m her mother’s husband.’

’We’ll see about that.’

’I’m not going anywhere with you. We’re going home right now.’

The thin veil of politeness slipped from his eyes. I got the impression he was glad to let it go.

’You’re coming with me, pal,’ he said, his voice a little lower now but somehow more convincing. ’We can do it nicely or the other way, but you’re coming with me.’

’Crazy,’ I said. ’It’s plain crazy.’

But I let the store detective lead me away, leaving Peggy with her new protectors.

’Mum,’ I heard Ronan say. ’Can I have -’

’No, you fucking well can’t,’ said his mum.

I spent two hours in a little room set aside for shoplifters, the perpetrators of trolley rage and other assorted crazies. Just me and the spotty detective. In the end, they didn’t call the police. They called my wife.

I heard them before I could see them as their footsteps echoed through the warren of storerooms and offices in the bowels of the supermarket. The door opened and there they were, my wife and my stepdaughter, escorted by some sort of white-coated manager.

’Hello, Harry,’ Peggy said. ’What’s this room then?’

’Madam?’ said the man in the white coat. ’Is that him?’

’That’s him,’ Cyd said. ’That’s my husband.’

She didn’t sound too happy about it.

’Try to have a good time,’ Cyd said, as our black cab crawled through the early-evening traffic of the West End. ’I know you’re not in the mood for going out. Not after being arrested.’

’I wasn’t arrested.’

’No?’

’I was only taken in for questioning.’

•oh;

’There’s a difference.’

’Of course. But please try to have a good time. For me.’

’I will,’ I said. Tor you.’

And I meant it. I knew that this was a big night for her.

Cyd was always accompanying me to work-related functions. Start-of-series dinners, end-of-series dinners, award ceremonies galore, and all the other compulsory fun that we had to endure as part of my working life as the producer of Fish on Friday. She never complained.

Unlike Gina, who usually came home from these things in tears of rage after someone had treated her like a moron because she was a homemaker. Unlike Gina, Cyd actually seemed to have a good time at these things. Or at least pretended she did, for my sake.

And tonight it was my turn to stand by Cyd. We were going to a dinner organised by the Caterers Guild. It was the first year that the chief executive of Food Glorious Food had been invited. I was her plus one.

’Are you sure I shouldn’t have put on a tie?’ I said. I was still in the sweatshirt and chinos that I had been apprehended in. ’They’re not all going to be in suits and ties, are they?’

Cyd stared at me doubtfully. She had been so wrapped up in what she was going to wear – in the end she slid into this little black number that showed off those legs that I loved so much, dancer’s legs, legs that could have belonged to Cyd Charisse herself – that she hadn’t taken a lot of notice of me.

’Well, what do you wear at one of your dinners? You know, the ones we have to go to when Fish on Friday comes to the end of a series?’

’You come as you are. You wear what you like. But that’s

TV:

’Oh, you’ll be fine. I was told it’s only an informal thing.’

The do was in a restaurant called Deng’s that I had been to with Eamon and a couple of executives from the station. A great big barn of a place that served Modern Asian – which meant immaculately presented variations of what you would get in the restaurants of Soho and Chinatown, but served under ironic Andy Warhol-style pictures of Deng Xiaoping, and in much smaller portions. The waiters at Deng’s wore beautiful Mao suits from Shanghai Tang. The clientele usually wore the expensive-casual that we sported in my game.

But not tonight.

As our taxi pulled up, my stomach lurched when I saw that tonight the men were all in black tie.

Apart from me, of course.

’Oh, Christ,’ said Cyd. ’I’m so sorry, Harry.’

’Whoops.’

’Do you want to go home?’

Til butch it out.’

’You don’t have to, babe. This is my fault.’

’I want to support you tonight. What’s the worst that can happen?’

’You’ll feel like a complete dickhead?’

’Exactly.’

We went inside. I moved through the black-tie crowd like a nun in a knocking shop, conscious of stares and sniggers, but ignoring them all.