Fifty-Minute Hour (33 page)

I shift my gaze from Zack's Ferrari/ oak tree; glance around the room. It seems also full of phalluses – John-Paul's kind, at least – knives, pens, lamps, plants, and a still unopened wine bottle. Neither Zack nor I have drunk much. We're still on our first Chardonnay, haven't touched the hock. I stroke the cool green glass, embrace it like a lover, so my hands are safely occupied. ‘Hell! I'm thirsty, darling. Can we open this, d'you think?'

He doesn't look too pleased, despite the ‘darling'. I suppose it isn't very flattering to prefer a phallic symbol to the genuine McCoy. Mind you, he's made it very difficult. I'd planned a little respite, a spot more gentle questioning before we returned to heavy petting, but it's not easy to conduct an inquisition when the respondent is stark naked and wondering what to do with his erection. Actually, it punctures quite dramatically once he struggles with the cork, so I quickly get my word in.

‘So Seton was mistaken, then, about John-Paul's doctorate in philosophy?'

‘Nial, I'm just slightly sick of Seton – right? I've had him up to here these last two weeks.' He gestures to his neck, which looks both fatter and more slack without the arty tie to hold it in.

‘We're not talking about Seton, we're talking about John-Paul.'

‘Well, I've even less interest in John-Paul. I realise you're obsessed with him, as Seton was himself, but frankly, Nial, I …'

I gulp my wine, upset by this new peevishness, and by a sudden shaming insight that I'm betraying Seton just as much as he is, could share that label ‘hypocrite'. Seton's in a hospital, not in a clinch with Cressida, so what exactly am I doing lolling on a sofa with his friend/employer/ confidant? I grab some weird exotic fruit, which looks a cross between a mango and a small Belisha beacon, remove its pips and peel, then stuff my mouth with it, which provides me with a good excuse not to talk, or kiss – a chance to think a moment. Am I really such a cow? After all, Seton said ‘No ties', and he ditched me at that private view, never phoned me to apologise or find out how I was –
and
lied to me quite flagrantly on almost every subject. Okay, he's schizophrenic, which I suppose excuses him, but it excuses me as well. If my (ex?) lover doesn't know me, treats me like a chair or stretch of carpet, then it's high time I moved on.

The fruit tastes almost bitter, or perhaps it's just my mood a sudden sad sharp longing to have Seton back in bed – yes, even drugged and crazy. I miss him terribly: his size eleven feet which made mine small and feminine, his whorls of wild black body hair which seemed alive in their own right – rough and hot and springy; even the smell of nicotine which lingered in his mouth. Zack's mouth smells of Roquefort, fighting with mint mouthwash. The fact Zack doesn't smoke seems another missing bond. We're just two aching strangers. Even our two bodies look completely wrong together – his legs too short and plumpish for my longer leaner ones; his pallid doughy skin-tone making mine look sallow. (He's two-tone, actually – face and hands well-bronzed, the rest like uncooked pastry.)

I drain my glass. Better a mild hangover than self-pity and regrets. And anyway, aren't I more concerned with John-Paul than with Seton? John-Paul's my whole future, Seton just my past. I could even keep my next two-ten appointment, if I could get the final evidence that my therapist's a fully trained professional – turn up on the Monday as if I've never been away. If I agonise much longer, I'll lose scowling Zack as well as vacant Seton. I try a few soft words, but they fail to change his mood. (Men never quite forgive you if you ignore their full-blown pricks. It's like ignoring the Pyramids of Egypt, or the Colossus of Rhodes, or the other Seven Wonders of the World.) I'll have to try much harder, divert him with some party trick. I kick Seton from my mind, edge up close to Zack, fill my mouth with chilled white wine, transfer it to his own mouth (spending some time on the process); then wow his limp Colossus with my lips, my hands, an ice cube and a few peeled grapes, though not in quite that order. He's so ecstatic, he not only rears up instantly, but disgorges facts like semen, and by the time we're both stretched naked on the sofa, ready for the final lap, I'm chanting in my head, ‘BSc, MD, FRCPsych, editor of the new
International Journal of Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy
, member and ex-president of …'

‘Happy?' Zack whispers, as he lumbers up on top of me, plays that game which babies play of fitting round pegs in round holes.

‘Oh,
yes
.'

I hardly notice what he's doing. I'm mulling over John-Paul's long career, seeing him at Cambridge where he did his BSc, then going on to Barts to train, remaining there a decade for a gruelling spell of National Health drug-and-shocks psychiatry (and even a foray into sex therapy –
real
phalluses, for once); then his second (analytic) training, and his move to private practice; his phase as brilliant author, writing books on …

‘All right, darling?'

I wish he wouldn't interrupt. I'm busy counting minutes now and he's made me lose all track. I twist my neck, so I can peer down at my watch – the only thing I left on, very fortunately. It's a pity that it's Thursday, which is the longest gap of all between my sessions – four thousand aching minutes till two-ten on the Monday. No, I think I've got that wrong. It can't be quite as …

Zack lets out a sudden gasping moan, slumps inert on top of me. I only realise he's been thrusting when he stops, though it was so extremely brief and feeble, the word thrusting seems hyperbole. A trickle of saliva oozes from his open mouth and dribbles down my neck. ‘Was it all right for you, darling?'

I fight a laugh. I thought people only said that in bad novels or worse jokes. ‘Mm,' I whisper softly, as I recount my triumphs one by one: no wives, no dogs, no plumbers, no murders, no slashed paintings – best of all, just three thousand, eight hundred and ninety-seven minutes until I see my fully-trained, totally professional, indeed almost over-qualified John-Paul.

‘Yes, absolutely wonderful,' I tell him, truthfully.

Bryan slipped behind a tree, wished it had its leaves still, so it could hide him more effectively. The woman working in the garden of number thirty-three had been watching him suspiciously for the last half hour or so. He'd walked up and down Thurlston Grove twenty-seven times so far, passing her each time. He might be less conspicuous if he weren't carrying such a huge bouquet, wrapped in rustling cellophane and fastened with a showy yellow bow. It had already proved a hassle on the crowded tetchy tube trains, the jam-packed lifts and escalators, and finally on British Rail, where a child had cannoned into it, snapping off at least three precious flower-heads. He had almost retaliated by breaking off the child's head. He wasn't often violent, but those flowers had cost nearly half a session with John-Paul – not that he begrudged the cash. Wasn't Mary worth it, worth an arm or leg? He limped on down the road again, imagining he had lost a leg, proud to sacrifice any limb she specified.

The houses all looked closed and almost hostile – no children in the driveways, or friendly garden gnomes; just a rash of officious notices saying ‘Beware of the dog' or ‘No hawkers, no circulars' (or even ‘No charities') – suburban euphemisms for ‘GET OUT!' ‘GO AWAY!' Burglar alarms bristled everywhere, and many of the houses had not just dogs, but lions – the fierce stone sort rearing up on pedestals, threatening him with bared teeth and fearsome manes. He hoped Mary's road would look a little friendlier. She lived in Sylvan Gardens, which was the street exactly parallel, though he hadn't dared approach it yet. She might see him from her window, realise he'd arrived a good sixty minutes early and was already semi-dead with cold and fear.

He'd left off his vest and sweater, so he'd look leaner and more elegant, more the city gentleman, but the bitter wind was cutting through his favourite lightweight suit. It had taken hours to choose his clothes. What
did
one wear to a birthday tea in Walton? Grey shorts and his Cub tie was his first immediate thought. He'd told his Mother he was going to a seminar. She hadn't known the word, been immediately suspicious, especially as he'd never left her on her own before on a Saturday afternoon. Saturday was Mother's Day – well, every day was Mother's Day – but weekends most especially. He could hear her voice still squalling in his head – all those guilt-inducing words which ruined his own pleasure: ‘selfish', ‘thoughtless', ‘giddy', ‘irresponsible'.

He repositioned his bouquet. The wet stalk-end was oozing through its cellophane, and it would give quite the wrong impression to turn up with a damp patch on his groin. He checked his watch again: nine minutes to four. Only eight and three-quarter minutes and he could knock on Mary's door. The thought so terrified him, he broke into a run –
away
from Sylvan Gardens and back towards the station. He sweated, stumbled, shilly-shallied; finally forced himself to change direction, recite the eight-times-table to calm his jangling nerves, as he turned the corner into Mary's road. ‘Eight threes are twenty-four, eight fours are thirty-two, eight fives are …'

‘Forty.' He could see it spelt out on a plaque attached to Mary's gate – more classy than mere ‘40', and befitting the smug house itself, which was Queen Anne period style with two white columns flanking the front porch, ornamental shutters on all the latticed windows, a double garage (panelled), and coloured gravel on the drive in tasteful shades of pink and green. He felt ashamed for his own hencoop in vulgar Ivy Close, with its plain and basic semis, which had neither appealing house-names, nor what the estate agents called ‘character'. Mary's home wasn't simply ‘Forty', it was also gracious ‘Wych Elm'. He admired the second carved wood plaque, the name itself with its stylish sloping ‘y'; felt he shared a bond with it. Bryan with a ‘y' and wych with a ‘y' was surely a good omen. He couldn't see an elm – either wych or otherwise, but it was probably round the back, and he was still dithering in the street. He took a deep breath in, checked his tie and smile were both in place, then opened the front gate, plunged up to the rustic oak front door, heard the tinkling door-chimes echo down the hall as he pressed the bell with one damp and trembling finger.

A fierce barking from inside made him back away immediately, ready for full flight. Perhaps he'd got the day wrong, or even dreamed the whole idea. Why should Mary bother with a …?

‘Hallo, Bryan. You found us, then?'

‘Look, I can go away if it's not convenient, or if I've muddled up the date … ? His words were petering out. Mary looked so lovely, so womanly, so
perfect. She
was wearing blue – the colour of high summer: blue sea, blue cloudless sky, blue gentians, blue heaven.

‘Muddled up the date? But we confirmed it only yesterday. Come in. Are those for me? How gorgeous! You shouldn't, Bryan, really. It's your birthday, so you should have the presents. Down, Horatio! I hope you don't mind dogs.'

‘No, I love them.' Bryan fondled the old labrador, which was the colour of rich honey, its sagging pregnant belly contrasting with its well-developed testicles. He'd love an orang-utan or a man-eating piranha, so long as it were Mary's. He'd never had a dog. His Mother had dismissed the entire canine population as dangerous, germy, expensive and a tie. He'd invented an imaginary dog when he was eight or nine – a small mongrel called Rover (he'd never been imaginative), who was faithful and devoted and quite flatteringly affectionate. Horatio seemed the same, was licking both his hands, sitting on his foot, trying to reach his face so he could cover it with kisses.

‘You've really made a hit, Bryan. He usually growls at strangers. That's enough now, Horatio. Let Bryan take his coat off.'

He wished she'd take her own off, or at least that jacket thing which was concealing her full breasts and surely quite unnecessary in the warm fug of the house. He looked around appreciatively – fitted carpets everywhere, even in the hall, and those big broad-shouldered armchairs in the sitting room (with what looked like large blue dandelions blooming on their comfy cushioned seats), and a piano and a hi-fi and a proper cocktail cabinet with cut-glass decanters labelled ‘Port' and ‘Sherry' respectively, and nice safe cosy pictures of the countryside and coast, and china spaniels on the bureau and a clock which seemed to smile, and best of all, a real coal fire which purred with noisy pleasure as he sat down on the sofa, stretched his legs towards it.

The only thing which spoiled the room was the preponderance of photographs – all of other men – an overweight and scowling chap whom he assumed must be the husband, and several smugly smiling boys in various stages of undress; starting with a semi-naked baby and proceeding to a gangly lad in swim trunks, sucking an ice cream. He dragged his eyes away from them, rehearsed his opening line of conversation. He'd decided to impress her by talking about
Superspace
, a new and very complex book he'd borrowed from the library (and which his Father had commended at last week's science class). He'd spent the whole night reading it by torchlight, so he could drop it sort of casually into the birthday conversation. The book had said that total chaos in the universe was averted only because matter was undisciplined and lazy. He'd been called the same himself – since infancy, in fact, but for
matter
to be lazy sounded downright dangerous, yet according to the author, it was feckless and plain indolent – lolled about, ran down.

He cleared his throat, prepared his opening lines. He must avoid all boring jargon, while sounding deep, intriguing; perhaps crack a little joke, as Skerwin did so often, to dilute his frightening braininess.

‘It's … er … cold for early December.'