Spin Cycle (17 page)

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she shot back. “He’s only ten. He isn’t anything.”

“I agree. But you
do
think he could be gay, right?”

She looked up. “Sometimes,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I know it shouldn’t matter how he grows up, but I can’t help worrying. There’s so much prejudice out there and I just want him to have a regular, straightforward life. Is that so wrong?”

“No,” he said, reaching across the table and taking her hand. “Course it’s not wrong.”

“You know, you’re the first person I’ve told about all this.”

“I thought I might be.” He smiled.

“You think I’m stupid and ignorant, don’t you—for feeling the way I do?”

“Rachel, that’s the last thing I’m thinking. You’re not stupid or ignorant. But you have to stop worrying. It’s probably only a phase he’s going through—a phase that has nothing whatsoever to do with his sexuality.”

“Yeah. That’s what I keep telling myself, but it’s hard. . . .”

“I know,” he said gently.

They sat in easy silence for a few moments. She suddenly felt closer to him than ever. She decided to seize the moment, tell him she loved him. The worst that could happen was that he’d tell her he only wanted a casual relationship. She could bear that. For the time being at least. She was just about to open her mouth to speak when he stood up and said he had to get back to his Third World washing machine invention, which was finished but refusing to start.

“But I was going to make you lunch,” she protested.

“I’m sorry, but I really should get going.”

Just then Sam appeared, a Barbra LP in his hand. “Here, I thought your dad might like
Pins and Needles
. I’ve got two copies.”

“Gosh, Sam. That’s really kind of you, but I’m not sure . . .” He looked up at Rachel.

“No, it’s OK. Please, take it,” she said.

“Thanks,” Matt said, ruffling Sam’s hair. “That is really kind of you. He’ll love it. I just know he will.”

Sam beamed with pleasure.

Matt bent down and gave Rachel a fractionally sustained peck on the lips. “I’ll phone you,” he said. “Bye, Sam. And thanks.”

* * * * *

“He’s cool,” Sam announced, as they walked back into the kitchen. “He told me this wicked joke about two buckets of vomit on a bus.”

She chuckled. “What do you want for lunch?” she said.

Sam shrugged and sat himself down at the table. “Matt isn’t really the washing machine repair man, is he?” he said, dipping his finger in the sugar bowl and licking it.

“What do you mean?” Rachel said, snatching away the sugar bowl. “Of course he is.”

“Then why didn’t he look at the machine?”

“He did. While you were in your bedroom.”

“I didn’t hear it going.”

“You probably had your headphones on.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “OK, but why did he kiss you?”

“Kiss me?” she said, more than a hint of discomfort in her voice. “Well, he’s . . . he’s sort of a friend as well as being the washing machine repair man.”

“Friends don’t kiss you on the lips. Kissing on the lips is like snogging—unless it’s your mum or your grandma doing it to you. And you only snog people you want to have sex with.”

“Sam, that’s enough. Matt is a friend, that’s all. Just a friend.”

“So you’re not going to marry him, then, instead of boring Adam?”

He was raising too many issues—issues she was nowhere near ready to discuss with him.

“Of course I’m not going to marry him,” she said edgily.

“Wish you were. Matt’s a laugh.”

“Yes, I know.” She smiled. She paused and took a deep breath. “Tell you what,” she went on in her best deal-brokering tone. “Why don’t you phone one of your mates and see if they want to come over and play after lunch. Or even stay the night. And if you’re good I’ll get Chinese for supper.”

“OK,” Sam shrugged. “I’ll phone Charlie. . . . So you’re definitely not going to marry Matt then?”

“Definitely. Now off you go and phone Charlie.”

A few moments later, Rachel heard Sam on the phone. “. . . anyway one bucket of vomit turns to the other and says ‘you look miserable,’ and the other one says ‘yeah, I always get sad when the bus gets to this spot—it’s where I was brought up.’ ”

Because Charlie’s mother was temporarily without a car and couldn’t deliver Charlie to Rachel’s, she said it would suit her better if Sam came to their house. She said he could even stay the night.

* * * * *

Rachel dropped Sam off at Charlie’s just after two. On an impulse she decided to go to her mother’s. It occurred to her that Faye just might be ready to talk about her relationship with Simon. She’d been feeling fractionally better disposed toward her mother in recent days. When she’d finally plucked up the courage to tell her she’d passed the audition for the Joke for Europe contest, Faye’s eyes had filled with tears.

“But darling, I’d never realized you were this good. I mean, I always thought you were funny, but deep down I just assumed you were kidding yourself. Daddy didn’t, though. He always said you had it in you to be a success.”

“Of course, it may all come to nothing,” Rachel had warned her.

“It doesn’t matter,” Faye had said, patting the back of her daughter’s hand. “You got this far. That’s what counts. Oh, sweetie, I am so proud of you.”

She’d then put her arms round Rachel and hugged her.

* * * * *

Rachel knew her mother would be at home. Every Saturday afternoon her father went to see West Ham, leaving his wife at home with a face pack, a Maisie Mosco novel and a box of Ferrero Rocher.

The moment she pulled up outside the house, she noticed the bedroom curtains were closed. She frowned.

They couldn’t be. They wouldn’t. Not in the bed Faye had shared with Jack for forty years. It was unimaginable. Wasn’t it? She could hear Shelley telling her not to interfere, but she couldn’t stop herself. She just had to find out what was going on.

With surprising calmness, Rachel got out of the car, locked it and walked up the garden path.

Deciding there was no point ringing the bell because her mother was hardly likely to answer, she went rummaging in her bag for the spare set of house keys her parents had given her in case of an emergency. And if this wasn’t an emergency—albeit a marital emergency—she had no idea what was.

It was only as she turned the key that it occurred to her there could be other, perfectly innocent reasons for the bedroom curtains being closed. Maybe Faye wasn’t well and had taken herself off to bed. Or maybe her father was in bed. Or maybe they were in bed together. She couldn’t simply barge in. She might make a complete fool of herself. Still determined to find out what was going on, she tiptoed into the hall and up the stairs.

She was about halfway up when she heard voices and laughter coming from her parents’ bedroom. She stopped to listen. The first voice was unmistakably her mother’s. The second was male. She didn’t recognize it. She decided it had to be Simon. So she’d been right after all. Her mother was in bed with him. Feeling distinctly nauseous, she started up the stairs again. She could hear more laughter. Strange, it belonged to a woman, but not her mother. Rachel paused and frowned. Suddenly a man joined in. It sounded like her father. What on earth was going on in there?

The only possible explanation she could come up with was that she’d made a dreadful mistake, that the voice she’d thought was Simon’s wasn’t Simon’s at all, and that her parents had done something like put in new fitted wardrobes and were busy showing them off to friends. But why they would show off new fitted wardrobes with the curtains drawn, she had not the remotest idea.

She reached the landing and edged her way along it slowly, her back and palms pressed against the oyster silk wall, Bruce Willis style. As she got close to her parents’ bedroom, she could see the door was open a crack. By now her heart was going like the clappers. The overwhelming likelihood was that her parents were in the bedroom innocently premiering their latest home improvement. What would she say if they caught her spying on them?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice she’d originally thought was Simon’s and then decided wasn’t.

“So what I’d like you to do, Faye, darling, is just relax and perhaps put your legs up a bit—yeah just like that. Oh, that’s fantastic. Just fantastic. Now I’ve got a glimpse of your bottom and so has Tom. That all right for you, Tom?”

Tom? Who was he? And why in the name of buggery was he looking at her mother’s bottom? Suddenly she was in no doubt that whatever was going on in that room had nothing to do with fitted wardrobes.

By now Rachel had reached the bedroom door. Blood pounding in her ears, she dared herself to peek through the crack. She must have looked for no more than a few seconds, but it was long enough.

It wasn’t her mother and Simon she saw lying half naked on the bed, their arms and legs entwined, her mother wearing the skimpy cream satin bra and pants Simon had bought her in Selfridges—it was her mother and father. But her relief was short-lived. Kneeling at their feet was Simon—fully clothed and leering. Sitting at the end of the bed, watching Simon watch her parents, there sat a puffy, pasty-to-the-point-of-bleached, sixty-something couple. Her immense baggy breasts were tumbling out of a fuchsia lace Wonderbra. His paunch was draped over white briefs. He was also holding a large, pink ostrich feather.

She recognized them at once. It was Coral and Ivan Finkel.

She tiptoed back down the stairs and silently let herself out.

CHAPTER 17

“Swingers?” Shelley hooted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous. I’m telling you, they’re swingers.”

“Rachel, your parents are elderly Jewish people. Take it from me, they are not swingers.”

“But they were in bed with another couple.”

“Hang on. Hang on.” Shelley took a cushion from the end of the sofa and shoved it into the small of her back. “A minute ago you said they were ‘on’ the bed, not in it.”

“In bed, on the bed,” Rachel said with a dismissive wave of her arm as she continued pacing round Shelley’s living room like a demented leopard in a cage. “What’s the difference? They’re still swingers.” She drained her glass of Château Noshit.

“But were your mum and dad actually doing—you know—stuff, with this Coral and Ivan?”

“Well, no,” Rachel conceded. “Not at that exact moment . . .”

“And what about Simon? What was he doing?”

“Just kneeling there,” she said, pulling a disgusted face, “drooling. Then there was this Tom creep, but I couldn’t see him.”

“So Simon wasn’t touching either of them?”

“No, but he was watching. That’s almost as bad.”

“And what about your parents—can you remember precisely what they were doing?”

“I dunno. Cuddling I suppose.”

“Just cuddling. So you didn’t actually see anybody do anything to anybody?”

“Shelley,” Rachel said, exasperation creeping into her voice, “my parents and their friends were lying half naked on the bed. Isn’t that enough? What do you think they were about to do—examine each other’s bodies for signs of melanoma?”

She picked up the bottle of Château Noshit from the coffee table and refilled her glass.

“So,” Shelley said, “you legged it without really seeing anything?”

“I didn’t need to
see
anything. Look, if they’re not swingers, what are they?”

“I dunno.” Shelley was clearly struggling to come up with an answer. “Maybe they’re just . . .”

“Face it, they’re swingers.” Rachel knocked back some wine. “I mean, Ivan Finkel even had an ostrich feather in his hand. Is that perverted or what?”

“Nah. Perverted’s the whole ostrich.”

Rachel giggled despite herself. “Look,” she said, taking another mouthful of wine, “this really isn’t funny. These are my parents we’re talking about.”

“I know,” Shelley said, trying to keep a straight face. “I’m sorry. I realize you’ve had a shock today, but I can’t help thinking you’re getting this whole thing out of proportion. I mean, so what that in their more advanced years, your parents have become . . .”

“Swingers.”

“I was going to say ‘become interested in a bit of bohemian eroticism.’ ”

Rachel gave her a withering look. “They’re perverts. I have perverts for parents.”

“All right, all right. Let’s accept, just for a moment, that they are swingers. So what? I mean, they’re doing nobody any harm. I mean, swinging’s a bit naff—a bit Weybridge, maybe, but if that’s what you’re into . . .”

“If it were anybody else,” Rachel said tersely, “I’d agree with you. But it’s my mum and dad. It’s bad enough thinking of them having sex at all. But this . . . this . . . debauchery . . . at their age. It’s disgusting. I mean, why can’t they just . . . ?”

“What? Sit on their commodes playing connect the dots with their liver spots? Rachel, leave them alone. At least you know now that your mother’s not cheating on your dad.”

Rachel gave a tiny shrug. “I guess,” she sighed.

By now it was late and Shelley, who was finding it almost impossible to stay awake past nine o’clock these days, started yawning. Rachel took the hint.

“Oh, by the way, I didn’t tell you,” Rachel said as Shelley opened the front door to let her out. “I saw that Tractor bloke in the pub again the other night.”

“Oh right,” Shelley said, perking up. “The joker with the stylish seventies gear and pale skin. I’d really like to meet him.”

“Believe me, you wouldn’t,” Rachel said. Tractor was harmless and vaguely entertaining, she supposed. But there was no doubt in her mind that Shelley could do far better. “For a start he’s still trying to pick up women with that ridiculous book. And he doesn’t have a job. From what I can tell, all he does is sit in the Red House reading the
Sun
and inventing ludicrous get-rich-quick schemes.”

“Oh,” Shelley said, grinning. “Like what?”

“OK, get this. He invents breakfast cereals. Apparently his latest has a Roman theme.”

“What, you mean like wheaty, sugar-coated centurions and gladiators?”

“Yeah, he calls it Imperial Cereal. He’s actually sent the idea off to the chairman of Kellogg’s. I mean, is that sad or what? . . . Look, I’ll speak to you tomorrow.” She thanked her for the wine and stepped out onto the landing.

“ ’S’OK,” Shelley said. “And please try to calm down about this swingers thing. I mean, it is just possible you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick.”

“Yeah, right,” Rachel said with a doubtful laugh. She turned and started to walk away.

Shelley closed the door.

“Imperial Cereal,” she giggled to herself, leaning her back against the door. “That’s really funny.”

* * * * *

The phone started ringing the moment Rachel walked into the flat.

“Hi, darling, it’s only me.”

“Ah,” she said. “Mum.”

“You know the thing I love about phoning you, Rachel? You always sound so pleased to hear from me.”

“No . . . it’s not that. I am pleased,” Rachel blustered, running her fingers through her hair. “It’s just that . . .”

Blimey, she thought, how do you chitchat with your mother, when only a few hours earlier you caught her swinging with Coral and Ivan Finkel?

“Rachel, you sound peculiar. What’s the matter? Are you ill? Omigod, don’t tell me. It’s Sam. Sam’s ill. What is it? Is it serious? Have you called the doctor?”

“No, no, Mum. It’s OK. We’re fine. I . . . er . . . It always startles me when the phone goes late at night, that’s all.”

“But, sweetheart, it’s only just turned ten. It’s not that late. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, really,” Rachel said, doing her level best to convince herself that her parents’ sexual preferences were none of her business, that she had no right to judge them and that to do anything other than have a perfectly normal conversation with her mother would be narrow-minded to the point of bigotry. “So how are you and Dad? You two been up to anything interesting?” She instantly slapped her hand against her mouth. She’d uttered those final words before she could stop herself. Now her mother would think she was prying.

“I mean,” she gabbled, “not that you’ve probably been up to anything much at all. Probably just had a regular, boring ostrich . . . I mean day.”

“Rachel. Have you been drinking?”

“Me? No. Well, I may have had a couple of glasses of wine at Shelley’s. But I think I’m just a bit tired. I’ve been working really hard learning all my material for Sunday, that’s all.”

“I hope you’re not overdoing it,” Faye said, sounding distinctly troubled. “Look, I’m phoning because I want to talk to you about Adam.”

“Adam?” Rachel said, a tad uneasily.

“Yes. Now listen to me,” Faye said, lowering her voice to a virtual whisper. “I know sometimes the grass can seem greener on the other side of the street, but the thing is, as soon as you set foot on that grass and sample the forbidden fruit—you stand a real risk of setting the cat well and truly among the pigeons.”

“Sorry, can you run that by me again?”

Of course Rachel had understood every word. By getting her mother to repeat herself, she was simply playing for time. Somehow, she hadn’t the vaguest notion how, Faye had got an inkling she was cheating on Adam and she had to work out what she was going to say. She couldn’t tell her the truth—that she was about to end her relationship with Adam. Faye would only start begging her not to ruin her life. Then she’d burst into tears, hyperventilate with emotion and Jack would have to sit her down and make her breathe into a paper bag. Rachel wasn’t ready for all that. Not yet. At the same time, she didn’t want to lie. Her only option, she decided, was to get her mother off the line. But how?

It was a few moments before the solution hit her. While Faye prattled on about what a lovely boy Adam was, how she loved him like a son and what a wonderful husband he would make, Rachel rammed the phone between her chin and shoulder and began climbing onto the slightly rickety hall table. Very gingerly she stood up. Her back pressed against the wall for support, she reached up and stabbed the red tester button on the smoke alarm. The ear-piercing shriek came instantly.

“Rachel,” Faye squeaked, “is that the smoke alarm? What’s happened? What’s going on?”

“It’s OK,” Rachel bellowed above the din, as she eased herself down from the table. “Nothing to worry about. Sam woke up with the munchies, put a slice of bread in the toaster and burned it.” To illustrate her point, she let out a couple of highly theatrical coughs. “Look . . . cough . . . I gotta go . . . cough . . . and open some windows. There’s smoke everywhere. No, nothing’s on fire. . . . Mum, listen to me—there’s absolutely no need to call the fire brigade. Everything’s under control.” She moved her head away from the phone. “OK, Sam,” she called out, “I’m coming. . . . Look, Mum, I really have to go.”

With that she put down the phone.