Tony Parsons - Man And Wife

I wasn’t going to let a bunch of chicken satay merchants stop me accompanying my wife on her big night. Sally, Cyd’s assistant, waved like mad from the other side of the room, and started forcing her way over to us. Sally was a kind of relation – Gina’s half-sister, and my former babysitter. She was wearing some kind of elaborate ball gown, silky and strapless, like something Lucy Doll would sport on a big date with Brucie Doll. It was the first time I had ever seen her looking like a grown-up woman. She was very excited, but calmed down when she saw me.

’What’s wrong with Harry?’

’He didn’t know,’ said Cyd.

’Luke Moore wants to meet you,’ Sally said, taking Cyd’s arm.

’Luke Moore? He’s here?’

’And he wants to meet you.’ Sally was babbling now. ’He told me he’s heard lots of good things about Food Glorious Food and might put some business our way.’

’Who’s Luke Moore?’ I said.

’He’s only, like, the biggest thing in the world,’ Sally said. ’He runs Cakehole, Inc.’

’Luke Moore does most of the blue-chip catering in the financial district,’ Cyd said. ’If you put something in your gob in the City, chances are Luke Moore and Cakehole, Inc. did the catering.’

’Come on,’ Sally said, dragging my wife away. I followed close behind.

Luke Moore was a big man. Tall, stocky, builr like a former athlete who was only just starting to pile on the pounds. His hair was a little too long for someone who wasn’t Rod Stewart. About forty, I guessed, but looking good in that tuxedo.

I disliked him immediately.

He was surrounded by chortling sycophants who were hanging on to his every word.

’Apparently scientists have discovered a food that reduces the female sex drive by ninety-nine per cent,’ he said. ’It’s called wedding cake.’

While his flunkies howled with laughter and wiped away their tears of mirth, Luke Moore saw Sally, who was pushing Cyd forward.

And then he saw Cyd. Then he saw my wife.

’You must be the woman behind the best little catering firm in town,’ he said, taking her hand and not letting it go.

’And you must be a smooth-talking devil.’ Cyd smiled.

’It’s true -1 have heard so many good things about your cornpany. We must get together. See if we can’t help each other.’

’Sounds good,’ said Cyd, and I noticed that she wasn’t exactly breaking her arm trying to free her hand from this old rake. ’This is my husband.’

Luke Moore looked at me for the first time. ’I thought he was your janitor.’

The sycophants started splitting their sides. But, as my cheeks burned, my wife stuck up for me.

’Actually my husband is a very important man, Mr Moore. He’s the TV producer, Harry Silver.’

’Of course,’ said Luke Moore, who had clearly never heard of me. ’I am an enormous fan of your work.’

’Right.’

’Marty Mann was really something special when you were working together. Rather sad, what’s happened to him, don’t you think? All these dreary little programmes with low overheads and high impact. Six Pissed Students and all the rest. I’ve nothing against making money. Far from it. But I am so glad you’re working with Eamon Fish now.’

I was impressed. And flattered.

’Eamon Fish,’ said one of the sycophants. ’He’s bloody good.’

’Yes,’ said Luke Moore. ’He has a sort of B-list style about him.’

I smiled, biting my tongue. Why is it the only people who talk about the B-list are people on the C, D and E-lists?

’Plus,’ said Luke Moore, ’junkies always have a certain appeal, don’t they? You always wonder what’s going to happen next.’

’He’s not a junkie,’ I said. ’He’s suffering from exhaustion.’

But Luke Moore had finished with me. He bowed forward slightly, lifted Cyd’s hand and – right there in front of everyone

– gave it a kiss.

I nearly puked.

’I always need good people,’ he said. ’My business needs a woman like you, Cyd. We really must try to do something together.’

Td like that,’ said my wife. Then they exchanged cards, and I knew it wasn’t just trying to be polite.

These two would see each other again.

’Maybe you should get Luke Moore to go to the supermarket with Peggy,’ I said in the cab going home. It had been a rotten evening, and I was drunk and jealous and tired of people looking at me as if I should have used the tradesmen’s entrance. ’Maybe Luke bloody Moore could explain to her why she can’t have Frosties every time she wants them. Maybe Luke Moore could explain to Peggy why her useless bastard father only turns up when he feels like it. Maybe good old Luke Moore -’

’Harry,’ Cyd said, taking my hand. ’Calm down, babe. Luke Moore doesn’t want to marry me. He doesn’t want to care for me and read to Peggy and help us to cook Christmas dinner.’ She stroked my face with all of the old tenderness. ’He just wants to fuck me.’

’Oh,’ I said, starting to sober up.

’Do you know how many times a day a woman sees that look?’

’Once or twice?’

She chuckled. ’Maybe even more. But I’m a married woman. So shut up and kiss me, stupid.’

So I kissed her, feeling stupid, but also feeling grateful, and lucky, and as much in love as I had ever been. There was no way I was going to lose this incredible woman. Not to Luke Moore or anyone else. Not unless I did something crazy.

And why would I ever do a thing like that?

Emblazoned diagonally across the For Sale sign outside Gina’s home – SOLD. When she came to the door, I could see packing crates stretching the length of the hall. It was really happening.

I wanted to do something different with Pat. The usual Sunday trinity of pictures, park and pizza didn’t seem like quite enough. I wanted him to have a great time. I wanted to see his face lit up with joy. I wanted him to remember today.

So we drove down to Somerset House on the Strand. It’s a grand old building but we weren’t going inside. We were here for the fountains.

They gave us coloured umbrellas to cover ourselves and we began racing through the forest of fountains in the courtyard, my son’s face screwed up with delight as the water bounced off his brolly.

Gene Kelly, I thought. Singiri in the Rain. Just singing and dancing in the rain.

The courtyard was crowded when we arrived, but after a while the other children and their parents wandered off for drier, more sedate entertainment. But Pat couldn’t get enough of the mini-fountains that some genius had installed in the courtyard of that beautiful old building. So we stayed at Somerset House all afternoon, running through the water with our umbrellas above our heads. Soaked to the skin, our hearts pumping, and almost bursting with happiness.

Then as it started to get dark, we drove out to my mum’s place and went to the old park. Just the three of us. My mother and my son and me, walking by the lake in the dusk of a November afternoon. The park was empty. Everyone gone. Last year’s leaves underfoot, and that winter smell in the air, fireworks and mist and another year slipping away.

And it reminded me of another day in this same park. The day we took the stabilisers off Bluebell, Pat’s bike.

I remembered my old man, the cancer already growing inside him, although we didn’t know it yet, running behind Bluebell, always losing ground, but saying those three words again and again.

I’ve got you.

I’ve got you.

I’ve got you.

Then, when it was dark, I took Pat home to his mother. I walked him to the door, and knelt in front of him, so that we were the same height.