A Kennedy - Serious Sweet

I think I should do that. I think so.

But then again, I can’t hear myself think. On occasions.

And then again, I don’t like it when I can. On occasions.

‘Sansom … Sansom … Sansom, would you like to explain yourself to my minister who is currently a little busy, what with that … that whole, what was it …? Yes, that whole upcoming general election distracting him from his usual devotion to your well-being and that of every other special advisor, no matter their department. Regards, by the way to your minister, I thought he did terribly well the other night and it was a tough situation for him.’

Always be nice about a special advisor’s minister. Their minister is the nipple at which they suck — he, or even she, will bring out the mammal in them — and they can’t help being fond.

The Mancunian is, perhaps, Sansom’s minister’s ugly and wet-brained child, the one they couldn’t sell to the circus — which is to say, not to a circus other than the one he now calls home: not to a proper circus that insists on its staff having skills — like tumbling, or eating live rats. All of which is not to be pondered .

‘Talk to him, to the Honourable Member … Then talk to him again … Don’t talk to me … Talk to someone who can help you. Please. Not me. I’m someone who can’t. Deep breaths, take deep breaths … I’m so sorry … Yes, you could ask my minister and if he were to tell me that I should assist, then I would try to see how we could do that.’

But he won’t, because he isn’t insane. I know there was something of a precedent set in Scotland, but purdah really should be purdah — I mean, it does matter a little, to democracy and so forth .

‘No, deep breaths, Sansom.’

It had been a while since he’d hung up on somebody who was swearing.

It felt good.

He paused at another door. His reflection bowed slightly and flexed its knees.

He nodded to it, watchful, but it didn’t take offence. He winked.

Some men have the face for that kind of thing. I don’t.

And he did need to be gone now. The plants had been watered, trousers must be fetched, borrowed, purchased, the office was … it waited. Things waited.

It’s only my servant’s nature, my servility, that means I’m here at all.

Val must have encountered — have come across, have had … there really were no verbs that didn’t end up leering once you’d put them in a sentence with Valerie — she must have been the innocent acquaintance of some other person who knew how to fill up a jug with water and then empty it out at horticultural locations, repeat as necessary. There had been no call for him to be the one. She’d made it his responsibility on purpose.

Because she knows it teases.

He trotted his way down to the hall, switched on her alarm, then pulled open — with wonder, bliss, relief, something — her front door and stepped outside. Then he duly swung the impeccably painted wood, pushed it back into its impeccably painted frame. Her forbidding selection of locks were duly thrown, expensive levers operating as required. His phone rang again and he could almost take the small din as a fit celebration of departure.

And it wasn’t Sansom.

And wasn’t any other kind of pressure or disturbance.

Thank God. Or almost that.

‘He got me … Yes, Sansom got me, Pete … I’m sure. I’m sure … Yes. He should know better. But they never do. And we’re an anachronistic, smug elite when they don’t need us and we should all be working in Croydon, what few of us are left, and then when they want us … Would be what I might say, but I don’t and didn’t. But one could.’ It was Pete Tribe from the office. A promising man, Peter. ‘And he shouldn’t have bothered you, Peter … He shouldn’t have bothered me. I’ve just got rid of him — one can always hope — and I’m on my way in and don’t worry about it, you did the right thing — only I have to change my trousers, so I need to go back home … No, no … Of course … We don’t have someone with a remit to provide gangsta slash hip-hop references in support of the notion that he was in some manner … The trousers? No, I was at home last night, but now I’m not … No, not that … I’m in Chiswick … At Val’s … No, she’s not here … No, it’s … No … I’ll be in as soon as I can … No, not that … Yes, bye.’

Jon turned at the brewery corner — sucking in the malty air — and started to lope for the Underground. Val’s had never been that handy for public transport. All this nonsense meant he was late and the Tube wouldn’t cut it, time-wise, and the rush hour was going to cripple any cab’s progress — if he could even find one. She’d made him have to deal with the rush hour. That was bad of her.

Peter will naturally mention my trousers and Chiswick to others, to the denizens around him, which will make for an inflammatory combination.

Once the sticky type of word got round, it stayed round and rumours of a sexual nature were the tastiest for onlookers and the most adhesive.

No, not that .

His current predicament had nothing to do with women, or a woman, in the erotic sense.

No, not that.

But everyone would assume. They thought he had women, that he had some ludicrous stable of complacent partners and rushed from one bed to another dispensing sex.

No, not that.

If you trace things to their sources …

During his marriage he’d been taken as neuter, treated like an invalid — patronised by some and softly avoided by others who didn’t want his assumed deficiencies to infect them. And those men who knew his wife in the sporting sense … some were brash with him, some guilty, some gentle. Being married to an adulteress taught you a lot about human nature.

After the divorce very little had changed, although he’d seemed to be accepted as less contagious. And he’d been able, for a few translucent weeks, to identify even the most covert of the colleagues she had encountered, come across, had … Each of the men had displayed an underlying tension he could only assume was caused by fears that Valerie might now intend to marry and then betray them.

Although I must not exaggerate. It wasn’t so many men. Not that many. It was only enough. I suppose one could frame it in those terms. It was enough to satisfy her needs, which I was not.

Beyond that stage, there were pats on the shoulder, rueful and complicit looks, invitations involving pubs, or coming round for dinner to get a change of air, meet the wife and kids.

Jon had sidestepped each offer of hospitality and been punctual, reliable in his working life — which was to say the whole of his life, pretty much — and had given no indications of internal crisis.

What I feel …

Well, if I don’t know at present it doesn’t matter … Except it does feel … I do feel … as if I have misplaced something of importance and forgotten what … And Christ knows, I haven’t and can’t and mustn’t forget anything today …

It’s as if I am ill … as if my skin were someone else’s … There’s a strain … the obvious strain … which I hope is not obvious …

And then, it had been on a Thursday morning — he’d never taken to Thursdays, they weren’t as generous as Fridays should be — today is an exception but could rally — they weren’t as workman-like and peaceable as Wednesdays, Thursdays were bitter … On a Thursday, he’d discovered he’d been turned into this whole new figure of fun.

The word had been put round. A number of words, to be accurate: Lucy, Sophia … words such as those words. And I was declared a divorcé now off his leash. One and all have since assumed that I am, in some manner, taking up where Valerie left off.