Tony Parsons - Man And Wife

’Jesus Christ, Harry. I’m not interested in Luke. Not that way.’

’You said he wants -’

’I don’t care what he wants. Wanting is not the same as getting. He’s smart enough to see what I’m doing with the company. He knows I can help his business. I think he can help mine. I admire him, okay?’

’You admire a sandwich merchant?’

’He’s a brilliant businessman. He’s worked hard for everything he’s got. I know he’s a bit flash. I know you didn’t like what he said about Eamon. I didn’t like it either, okay? But this is strictly business. Do you honestly believe I would think about him in that way? I don’t go around shagging anything that moves, Harry. I’m not a man. I’m not you.’

’So how does it work? You and old Luke? I’m just curious about your relationship.’

’His company has more work than it can handle. If something comes up and they’re fully stretched, he calls me.’

’No – I mean how does it work with you and him? On that other level. Does he know you’re not interested in him that way? Is he cool about that? Or is still hoping to get his hands on your canapés? Don’t tell me, because I know the answer.’

I knew I should have shut up by now but I couldn’t stop myself. I was afraid that I was losing her. Which was kind of ironic, as I was the one who went knocking on Gina’s door when I knew she wasn’t home.

’Shall I tell you what makes me sad, Harry? You think he’s only interested in me for one thing. Maybe – just maybe – he’s interested in me for two or three reasons. Did that ever cross your mind? Why do you find it so hard to believe that someone could like me for what I can do? Not for what I look like? Why is that so hard?’

Because I am still crazy about you, I thought. Because I can’t imagine any man looking at you and not feeling exactly what I feel. But I said nothing.

’I don’t even want to talk to you.’ She turned on her side, angrily killing the light. I turned on my side, reached for the light.

We lay in the darkness for a while and when she spoke there were no tears in her voice, no anger. Just a kind of bewilderment.

’Harry?’

’What?’

’Why do you find it so hard to believe that you’re loved?’

She had me there.

Kazumi had told me she took a photography class in Soho every morning. After a couple of practice runs, I found that if I timed it just right, I could catch her on the short walk from Gina’s home to the tube station. I couldn’t believe that I was doing this thing. But I did it just the same.

I pulled up to the kerb beside her, sounding my horn, the stalled rush-hour traffic howling with protest behind me. I tried to look surprised.

’Kazumi. I thought it was you. Listen, do you want a lift into town? It’s not out of my way or anything.’

She got in, a little reluctantly, not as pleased to see me as I’d hoped she would be. She was struggling with a large cardboard box with ’Ilfbrd photographic paper’ written on the front. She had a couple of cameras with her. But she didn’t look anything like a tourist.

I asked her how she liked London, what techniques she was studying right now, if she missed Japan. I talked too much, babbling mindlessly, my cheeks burning, too excited to see her. Eventually she managed to get a word in.

’Harry,’ she said.

Not Harry-san? Not honourable, respected Harry? I admit I was a little disappointed.

’You’re married, Harry. With a beautiful wife. A wife you love very much.’ It was all true. She stared out at the paralysed, angry traffic, shaking her head. ’Or am I missing something?’

No, I thought. It’s me. It’s me who’s missing something. And suddenly I knew exactly what it was.

The smell of Cajun cooking.

Cyd was in the kitchen experimenting with red beans, rice and what was probably a catfish when I dumped the pile of glossy brochures on her chopping board.

’What’s that?’

I picked one up at random, showed her the palm trees, blue seas and white sand, like a street trader showing off his wares. ’Barbados, darling.’ I began nicking through the brochures. ’Antigua. St Lucia. The Cayman Islands.’

’Are you crazy? We can’t go to the Caribbean. Not now.’

’Then what about the Maldives? The Red Sea? Koh Samui?’

’I’m not going to Thailand, Harry. I have to work.’

I took her hands in mine. ’Run away with me.’

’Don’t touch me. I smell all fishy.’

’I don’t care. You’re the love of my life. I want to take you to some tropical paradise.’

’What about Peggy?’

’Peg comes too. The Indian Ocean. Florida. Anywhere in the world. For a couple of weeks. For a week. She can snorkel. Get a tan. Ride the banana boats. She’ll love it.’

’I can’t take her out of school.’

’Gina took Pat out of school.’

’I’m not Gina. And we can’t go away for two weeks.’

There were other brochures. Skinny ones, with glittering urban landscapes on the cover instead of sun-drenched beaches.

’Then what about a mini-break? Just for a few days? Prague. Venice. Or Paris – Pat loved Paris.’

’I’m too busy at the moment, Harry. Work’s really taking off. Sally and I can hardly handle it. We’re thinking of taking someone else on.’

’Barcelona? Madrid? Stockholm?’

’Sorry.’

I sighed. ’Do you want to see a movie? Maybe we could get something to eat in Chinatown. Sally can babysit.’

’When did you have in mind? Sundays are good for me.’

So my wife and I took out our diaries and, surrounded by her experimental Cajun cooking, we tried to find a window for romance.

I could always spot her across a crowded room. Something about the curve of her face, the tilt of her head, the way she pushed her hair out of her eyes. Just a glimpse was all it took. I couldn’t mistake my wife for anyone else. Even when I wasn’t expecting to see her.

It was a party at the station to launch the new season of programmes. Wine and canapés, gossip and flattery, a speech from Barry Twist about forthcoming attractions. An evening of compulsory fun. There was a lot of that in my game. And even though Eamon was officially resting and there was no Fish on Friday in the spring schedule, I thought I should be there. Marty Mann’s advice had been nagging at me more than I cared to admit. Maybe I should be searching around for new talent, looking to diversify. Maybe only a fool pinned all of their hopes on just one person. But right now I couldn’t think about any of that because my wife was here. I pushed my way through the crowd. Cyd was not surprised to see me.

’Harry. What are you up to?’

’Working.’ If you could call it working, these few hours of small talk and Chardonnay. My old man would have considered it a big night out. For me it was another day toiling at the coalface. ’How about you?’ Although of course I had guessed by now.

’Working, too.’ For the first time I noticed she was holding a silver tray by her side, empty apart from a few crumbs of fish cakes or satay. ’Sally’s babysitting for me. I mean – us. I got a call this afternoon. Luke and his people usually cater for this do, but they’re snowed under right now. It’s a good job for me to get.’

Luke. Wanker.

We smiled at each other. I was so glad to see her. I was feeling party-lonesome until her face was suddenly there. Cyd had been to quite a few of these evenings with me, although not recently. And although she never ducked these dos, this wasn’t really her thing at all – too much smoke, too much alcohol, and too much meaningless chitchat with people she would never see again, people who were always looking over your shoulder for someone more famous. Too much like hard work. But she had been with me in this room before, so it didn’t seem that strange to see her here. Even with a silver tray in her hands.