Tony Parsons - Man And Wife

But I didn’t do it. I finished filling my tank as he was making a great play of giving Maggie Thatcher the chocolates and flowers, and that’s when I caught a glimpse of myself in my car window, and the image held me. By the time I had recovered, Tex and his dancing partner had gone.

And I knew I could not approach him because I was afraid that I was that kind of man too – a pretender, conning a woman out of her love by appearing to be nice, terminating all emotion when the first bill arrived. What Tex did to my mum – was it really so different from what I was doing to Cyd?

With all my heart, I wanted to be the other sort of man, a man like my father. Loyal, true, a keeper of promises. A forever and ever man. But I suspected that I was much more like this toy cowboy than I was ever like my dad.

All smooth talk and empty promises, all milk chocolates and flowers, then running a country mile as soon as the going got rough.

Gina called me on the day she arrived in London, but it wasn’t the call I’d been expecting – cursory, formal, and anxious to get me off the line and out of her life.

Instead, the call, when it came, was at midnight, with Gina in tears, a hard-core soundtrack booming in the background.

’Harry?’

One word and I could tell it was her, even if the word was all choked up with emotion.

’Gina, what’s wrong?’

Cyd stirred beside me as I sat up in bed. She’d had a late night, catering for some launch, and she had fallen asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

’Harry, it’s awful.’

’You’re in London? Speak up, I can’t hear you.’

’We’re in our flat. Pat and me. In Belsize Park. I thought it would be nice around here. But the people next door – they’ve got So Solid Crew going at full blast.’

’You want me – what? You want me to come around?’

I felt my wife – my current wife, that is – pick up her alarm clock and slam it back down.

’Do you know what time it is, Harry?’ Cyd said.

’Could you, Harry?’ Gina said. ’It’s driving me nuts and it sounds like there are a lot of them. Some sort of party. I’m afraid to knock on the door.’

I put my hand over the mouthpiece. ’Gina’s in town. There’s a problem with the flat. Noisy neighbours.’

’Tell her to call the police.’ Cyd sat up in bed. She was wearing this old Tom Petty T-shirt. When we first started, even when we were first married, she used to wear the kind of nightdresses that drove me wild. Short, silky, see-through. Pants like dental floss at the top of her dancer’s legs. Now it was Tom Petty T-shirts. ’Give me the phone, and I’ll tell her myself.’

’Pat can’t sleep either,’ Gina said.

That was enough for me.

’Give me the address,’ I said. Til be there as soon as I can.’

As I was pulling on my clothes in the darkness, Cyd turned on her bedside light.

’She’s not your problem any more, Harry. You’re divorced. That relationship is over. Let her husband sort it out. Let the cops.’

I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to fight. But I knew that I couldn’t just ignore Gina’s call and go back to sleep. The old saying was right.

Our marriage had lasted for seven years.

But our divorce would last forever.

It was a big white house in Belsize Park. A good house, in an affluent neighbourhood. Lots of trees and builders’ skips, and the two kinds of cars that you always saw in neighbourhoods like this, the cars that were serious – Mercedes-Benz SLKs, Audi TTs, 3-series BMWs – and the cars that were just for fun

– original Beetles and Minis, and the new nostalgia versions, rusty Morris Minors, prehistoric Citroëns. I paid the minicab, already looking up at the house that contained my son and my former wife. I didn’t need to look at the numbers. I could hear the music coming from the second floor.

I pressed the button for the top floor and Gina buzzed me through the front door. The music thundered above my head. Once you got inside, the big white house reeked of rented property. Stacks of mail addressed to former tenants were piled on the worn carpet like autumn leaves. This place would not be cheap, probably two grand a month, but it didn’t feel like anyone’s home. The owners of the flats inside the big white house all lived somewhere else.

I walked up past the party on the second floor, hearing their laughter and screams, a smashing glass. The music they were playing sounded like a never-ending burglar alarm. Getting old, Harry.

Gina opened her door, pale and tearful, wrapped up in some kimono-style dressing gown that looked a few sizes too big. Or maybe it was meant to be like that. Underneath she had her pyjamas on, and I thought how unfair it was of Cyd to expect Gina to break up a drunken party in her pyjamas. Til go and have a word with them, okay?’ ’Thanks, Harry.’ Tat?’

’He’s all right. Sleeping, the last time I looked. Although God knows how.’

I felt my heart beating as I went down a flight of stairs and knocked on the door. No response. I knocked harder. Finally a gawky white kid with a retro Beatle cut opened the door. Students, I thought. Unlikely to knife me. But what was I expecting in Belsize Park? The Bloods and the Crips?

’You should have four American Hots, two Garlic Love-ins, and a Capricciosa,’ the gawky kid said. ’And a Vesuvio with extra pepperoni. Plus, you know, some coleslaw, garlic bread and stuff.’

’Actually I’m not delivering pizza. I’m from upstairs. Your music is keeping my son and my… wife awake.’

Over his high, bony shoulder I could see a flat full of young people laughing and dancing and trying to convince themselves that they were in a vodka commercial. A shorter, fatter youth appeared by his side.

’Has he got the Belgian chocolate ice cream?’

I could smell the sickly-sweet aroma of puff. Would that affect my son one flight up? Could my boy get passively stoned?

’He’s not from Mister Milano,’ said the gawky kid. ’He’s from upstairs.’

’Upstairs?’ said fatty.

’Wants us to keep the noise down.’

’Disturbing him, is it?’

’Apparently.’

They were laughing at me. I had been expecting threats to my person. I hadn’t expected them to laugh at me.

’No problem, mate,’ the fat one said. ’We’ll be quiet as a rat.’

’You won’t hear us – what is it rats do? – squeak,’ said the gawky one.

They held on to each other, rocking with laughter.

’Appreciate it,’ I said. ’Because my son, he’s seven, he -’

’No problem, mate.’

They closed the door in my face. And as I climbed the stairs to Gina’s place, the music miraculously decreased to a level that didn’t rattle the fillings in my teeth.

’Well done, Harry.’

I gave my ex-wife an it-was-nothing smile. And immediately the music was turned up to a volume that was louder than ever.

’Little bastards,’ I said, making for the door.

’Don’t go.’

I looked at her. She pulled the kimono thing tighter, as if trying to hide inside it.

’Gina? It’s not just those idiots downstairs, is it?’

’No.’

I put my arm around her and we went inside her flat. It was clearly expensive, but clearly on a lease. The heavy olde-English furniture, the blood-red leather sofa, the Gustav Klimt prints on the wall – none of these things could have been chosen by Gina, who loved all that was light and modern and Japanese. This place looked as though it had been decorated by Queen Victoria.

We sat on the blood-red leather sofa.

’Is it your dad?’ I hadn’t asked what was actually wrong with him. Since my own father had died, I fatalistically assumed that any illness an old person contracted was terminal.