Tony Parsons - Man And Wife

’You’re dropping Fish on Friday’?’

Barry laughed at the very idea. ’No, no, no, no, no,’ he said. Then he looked sheepish. ’Yes.’

’Christ, Barry. That show is Eamon’s life.’

I also thought – and my livelihood. I thought of the money I sent to Gina, the money for Pat, the bills at home, and wondered what I would do if our show went down the pan. Perhaps Marty Mann had been right. I was stupid to trust so much in just one person. When it all goes wrong, what have you got left? Monogamy breaks your fucking heart.

’We remain committed to Eamon. But after recent events, all to do with his ravenous little nose, we no longer see Eamon as talk-show material. We see him as something a bit more… street. Slightly more… youth. Bringing the drama, as it were. Busting a cap and so on. We want him to host Wicked World.’

’What’s Wicked World when it’s at home?’

’Well, co-host, actually. With Hetmione Gates.’

’That airhead with the tattoos who’s always at some launch party showing her drawers?’

Barry nodded enthusiastically. ’That’s Hermione. Isn’t she great? Very hip. Spunky. With a post-girl power sort of vibe.’

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ’She does show her drawers a lot, doesn’t she?’

’And Wicked World! What is it? Some harebrained mix of inane chat and bad music for pissed students who are just back from the uni bar and want to gorge themselves on borderline obscenity for an hour before they collapse in a stupor?’

’That’s the general idea,’ said Barry. ’It’s made by Mad Mann Productions. Your old pal, Marty Mann. Their star is in the ascendant, Harry. Marty’s got a whole raft of programmes on air this season. The reality TV thing, Six Pissed Students in a Flat, is back with a bang. And he’s got that new dating game, Dude, Where’s My Trousers? And that quiz show, Sorry, I’m a Complete Git. Marty’s also doing our new late-night cultural review Art? My Arse!’

’Up my arse? What kind of a title is that?’

’Not up my arse. Art? My Arse! Harry. Art? My Arse! It’s irreverent, topical, cutting edge.’

He saw the look on my face.

’Just run it past him, will you? The Wicked World thing. Time moves on. I know young men like Eamon – and you, Harry imagine that TV is always going to be there for them. But it doesn’t work like that. The world keeps turning. New faces are coming up all the time. Television is a good mistress but a bad wife.’

I was about to launch into my defence of Eamon – he had cleaned up his act, he was far too good to present late-night rubbish designed to ingratiate itself to drunken thickos – when over Barry’s shoulder I saw Cyd come into the Merry Leper. She was not alone.

Luke Moore had a proprietorial arm around my wife’s waist as he steered her through the bar and into the restaurant at the back. There was something different about her, I thought. And then I realised.

She looked happy.

I felt a stab of pain when I remembered she used to look like that when she was by my side. The mixture of pride and happiness you feel when you have found the one you have been looking for. And suddenly I knew that I didn’t marry her just for the sake of my son. I married Cyd because I was crazy about her. Because I loved her.

The man from the TV station stifled a yawn.

’That’s the thing about the modern world,’ he told me. ’Sooner or later, we all get dropped.’

When I got home Sally was sleeping on the sofa.

A mop of dyed blonde hair, baggy jeans, and a discreet navel ring just visible under her cropped T-shirt. The girl next door. What made Sally slightly different from the average babysitter was that her own baby was sleeping on the rug in front of the fire.

Precious was on her back, wearing Gap Kid pyjamas, her arms raised level with her ears, like a pint-sized weightlifter. She looked a lot bigger than I remembered, but then she must have been two years old already. And I realised that soon I would be exactly like one of those old wrinklies who got on my nerves all the time when I was growing up, saying aren’t you getting big? And the kid will think – stupid old git, that Uncle Harry.

Sally woke up, rubbing her eyes and smiling.

’Peggy went down well,’ she said. ’It’s very quiet without Pat.’

’How do you do it, Sally?’

She scooped up her sleeping daughter, started fussing with her wispy hair. ’How do I do what?’

’Precious. Bringing her up on your own. How do you manage it?’

’Well, my parents are great. Like your mum with Pat. And you know what it’s like. You looked after Pat by yourself for a bit, didn’t you? It’s not so bad.’

’I did it for a while. You’re doing it for life. It must be hard without – what’s his name? Steve? – pulling his weight.’

Td rather be on my own than with some useless bastard of a man,’ said Sally, rocking Precious in her arms. ’Like her fat-arsed father. No arguments. No bitching about who does what. Just me and my girl. The single parent answers to no one. Tell you what I like about it, Harry.’ She kissed the fluff on Precious’s head. ’It’s uncomplicated.’

I remembered the time Pat and I had been on our own, after Gina had gone to Japan to find herself, to get her life back, but before Cyd and I had begun. For all the support I had received from my parents, I had often felt like the last line of defence between my son and all the dark stuff in the world. Sometimes I felt lonely and afraid. And yet I remembered it as a happy time in my life. Pat and me together, just the two of us – I sort of missed those days.

Because Sally was right. It was uncomplicated.

I was taking a shower when Cyd came home.

She stuck her head around the shower curtain and gave me her goofy grin.

’Room for one more inside?’

She looked as though she’d had a drink or two. I thought of my wife with Luke Moore at the back of the Merry Leper. Why hadn’t she told me that she was meeting that creep? What was she trying to hide?

I could hear her humming to herself as she slipped out of her clothes. She seemed happy and playful, a slightly drunk woman coming home to her husband with a clear conscience. I turned my face to the shower head and let the hot water beat against my face.

Cyd stepped into the shower with me, her long, slim body pressing against me. I felt myself respond immediately. I couldn’t deny it to myself. I still fancied her like mad.

’Ho ho ho,’ she said. Boy, she was really tipsy. ’Are you just pleased to see me or is that a large erection? Come on, give me that soap.’

She worked up some suds and started lathering her limbs. Then she turned her attention to me, soaping my back. It was diligent rather than sexy – the work of a woman used to cleaning a child – but I was soon bone hard. I turned to face her, her wide-set eyes squinting in the spray, black hair plastered to her shoulders.

’In the shower,’ she laughed. ’We haven’t done this for ages, have we?’

’How was your evening?’

'Fine.’

’Sorry, who did you say you were seeing?’

’Oh, just these two women who do the catering for some of the blue-chip corporations in the City. We had a couple of drinks and grabbed some supper in the Merry Leper. Pat get off okay?’

’A couple of women, you say?’

She closed her eyes and moaned, gripping me like a handbrake about to be released.

I broke away from her, pushing the shower curtain aside and grabbing the nearest towel.

’What’s wrong? Harry?’

I furiously dried myself, soap all over my back, my wife’s face all wet and confused. I wished I didn’t want her so badly. I wanted it to be over, so that all this feeling would stop.