Tony Parsons - Man And Wife

By the time I was washed and dressed, Eamon and Kazumi had moved further down the beach. She must have thought that she had the images she needed, because now they were working more slowly, trying things out. She crouched on the kelp-strewn rocks while Eamon slowly strolled towards her, hands stuffed inside his pockets, staring – I guess you would call it moodily

– at a point just above her head.

And although it filled me with regret to admit it, I thought that perhaps she was right after all. Sex last night would not have been wise. A one-night stand with Kazumi would have been a big mistake. Because one night with this woman would never be enough.

And what did that mean? What did it mean when one night was not enough?

It meant an affair.

I had worked with enough married men who were conducting affairs to know that they were hard work.

The one-way telephone communications, the constant fear of discovery, the guilt, the anxiety, the tears at Christmas and New Year when home and hearth were calling, the feeling of being constantly and forever Tom. And the lying. It couldn’t be done without the lying.

I wasn’t the man for all of that. I didn’t have the heart. I couldn’t do it to Cyd. Or myself. Or Kazumi. At least that’s how I felt in the light of day with Kazumi fifty metres away, not wrapped up in tartan pyjamas and my arms.

I had been true to my wife.

I had done the right thing.

So why did I feel so miserable?

There was a low, mournful mooing by my side. It was Blunt, green around the gills and still buttoning his shirt. A muted belch escaped his lips. His face was covered in a thin film of sweat.

’Must have got a bad pint,’ he said, wandering off down to the beach where Kazumi was taking a final few shots of Eamon.

And I didn’t want to be so stuck on this young woman I hardly knew. Cyd was more than my wife and my lover. She was my best friend. At least until the other man came into our lives.

I remembered the moments that measured out our love. Cyd and I had had our share of good times. Looking at the lights by the Thames, the first night we ever spent together, last Christmas Day when everything struck us as hilarious, from Ibiza DJ Brucie Doll’s tiny turntables to my mum’s appalled expression as she inserted the stuffing up the turkey’s rear end.

But what had really forged the bond between us were the other times, the bad times. My son in the hospital, his head split open from a fall in the park. The wrenching sadness of my divorce from Gina. Cyd was there for me through all of that, and I knew she cared about me in a way that nobody else in the world did.

But now it felt like I was losing my wife, and finding a gap in my life that Kazurni was filling, even if she didn’t want to.

That gap the size of a family, and the shape of a heart.

One night I had cooked dinner for the four of us. Cyd and me, Peggy and Pat. Since I married Cyd, my cooking skills had atrophied. But I thought I would do it one night. Do it for the family.

The four of us were sitting around the table’s points of the compass. At the start Cyd and Pat had made a good job of feigning enthusiasm for my cooking, even if what Peggy said sounded spiced with sarcasm.

’Spaghetti Bolognese, Harry. Mmmm, I can’t wait!’

’Hah! You might have to, Peg!’

There was sometimes a sickening jollity in the exchanges between my stepdaughter and myself.

’Make sure the pasta is al dente, will you?’ she advised imperiously. ’I don’t like it too soft. You do know what I mean by al dente, don’t you?’

I stirred my bubbling meat and tomato sauce at the stove, my smile stiff with tension.

’You know you have to essentially treat it like a stew, don’t you?’ Cyd said gently. ’It takes a long, long time simmering that amount of meat.’

’Please,’ I said, trying to keep it friendly. ’My turn to cook tonight, okay?’

I cooked spaghetti Bolognese. Spag Bog. Can’t go wrong. I used to cook this stuff all the time when Pat and I were living alone. But for some reason I had it in my head that spaghetti Bolognese was a quick dish to prepare. I thought it took as long as – I don’t know. As long as it takes them to bring it to you in a restaurant. But I was wrong about spaghetti Bolognese, just as I have been wrong about so many things.

After an hour or so, Peggy was impatiently tapping Lucy Doll Secret Agent against the table. Pat was gawping at the remote control in his fist, as if waiting for a sign. And Cyd – after asking me really nicely if I minded – was doing her tax return. And still I stood at the stove, stirring the sauce that was taking inexplicably longer than any restaurant. I thought that maybe it wasn’t spaghetti Bolognese that I cooked so quickly and so easily for Pat and myself. Maybe it was spaghetti pesto. Yes, that was it. Spaghetti pesto was the one that was done in minutes. You just opened the can and chucked it on the pasta. It was simple and tasty. Green spaghetti, my son had called it.

Now, two years on from the days of green spaghetti, he dropped the remote control. It clattered against the wooden floor. ’Whoops,’ he said, smirking around the table, looking for supportive laughter. Peggy and Cyd ignored him.

I picked up the remote and angrily stuffed it inside my apron pocket.

’Stop thinking about TV for five minutes of your life, will you?’

My son’s chin began to tremble, a sure sign that he was fighting back tears. Peggy sighed elaborately.

’ Please may I leave the table now?’ she said. ’I am very busy tonight.’

’Wait a little while longer,’ Cyd said, not looking up from her accounts. ’You can go and get Brucie Doll Secret Agent if you want. He can talk to Lucy Doll about their mission while we’re waiting for Harry.’

’Yeah, everybody just wait a little while longer,’ I said, furiously stirring my meat sauce. ’Lucy Doll’s costume change can wait until after dinner.’

’Well!’ said Peggy. ’Someone got out of bed the wrong day.’

Cyd looked up from her accounts. ’It’s okay, Harry. I’ve spoken to her. You don’t have to put your five cents in, darling.’

’If you did it more often, I wouldn’t have to, darling.’

My wife put down her calculator and sighed. ’How much longer anyway?’

’I don’t know. It’s this minced beef. It’s taking ages.’

’Beef?’ Peggy said. ’Did you say – beef? I can’t eat beef.’

’Why not?’ ”

’Because meat is murder.’ She paused dramatically. ’Didn’t I tell you? I am not eating meat any more. I’ve decided to become a vegetarian.’

’Me too,’ said Pat. Tm a vegetable, too. Can I watch TV now? Dude, Where’s My Trousers? is on soon.’

I wanted a meal that would make us feel like a real family. That’s all. Not much to ask for. And maybe that’s exactly what I achieved.

Because by the time my spaghetti Bolognese was ready, none of us were talking to each other.

Eamon was walking towards me. Blunt and Kazumi were still down on the beach. He was saying something to her while scratching his distended belly. She was shaking her head and packing away her equipment. They began making their way back to the farmhouse, Blunt making no attempt to help Kazumi carry her gear.

’Good night last night?’ Eamon said.

’Nothing happened.’

’Hey, who am I to cast the first stone? What you get up to on a business trip is none of my business.’

’I mean it, Eamon. Nothing happened.’

’Sort of like Tantric sex, you mean?’

’Nothing happened.’

Nothing happened and everything happened. Because for the first time it had occurred to me that, if I couldn’t have a family with my wife, then perhaps I could have one with someone else.