The Queen's Margarine (6 page)

It had even struck her yesterday that he might have actually stolen the tulips and was now banged up in gaol. How else could he have acquired them, when he was struggling to make ends meet? Yet stealing them made no more sense than buying them. As far as she could ascertain, this particular variety, with its colour, markings and petal-shape, simply didn't exist. Which only increased her obsession. Weren't inexplicable dream-flowers peculiarly precious? And wasn't it vital to see him again, if only to discover where he'd found them?

In fact, she went to sit at the dining-table, just to gaze at them again, as she'd been doing the whole week. Their colour had deepened to a blatant, blowsy orange, as if they'd come on heat and were smouldering with desire. Yet they also looked unkempt and almost slatternly, flinging themselves all over the place, clearly frantic to escape the vase and break loose in rebellion. Even when delivered, they had been free of any ties or wrappings; anarchic from the start. The last bouquet she'd received (from her mother on her birthday) had been double-wrapped, first in shrouding cellophane, then in stiff, confining paper; the stalks fastened with
tight rubber-bands, as well as restrictive string. It had taken her a good ten minutes to remove their fetters and let them breathe. But these tulips were true mavericks and, as each day passed, became more and more unbridled; now splaying out their petals in the most licentious manner; pushing their brazen faces almost into hers. Scentless when they first arrived, they had even developed a smell: a musky odour – rank and frank and sexual, as if they were using every wile to get themselves – well, ravished.

She glanced from their orange tumult to the photos on the sideboard: her family reproving her; reminding her that, as wife and mother, it was utterly reprehensible to be thinking of another man. Deliberately, she went over there, fixing her attention on the photos, as if, that way, she could ground herself in duty and fidelity. But her eye was caught not by pictures of her own kids, but by a snapshot of herself as a child, neatly dressed in school dress and clean white socks, and demurely holding both her parents' hands. In fact, she had been a wild child, unruly and obstreperous, but that side of her had been ruthlessly suppressed by a disciplinarian father and strict, God-fearing mother. Yet some tiny but determined part of that pulped and trampled tomboy seemed to be alive still, clamouring and fizzing just below the surface.

Well, she must murder it again – cold-bloodedly, remorselessly – to save herself from danger. And there was another, equal danger that she might be making a total fool of herself. Suppose Fergus had simply penned his note as a crazy bit of poet-speak – something he'd regretted ever since? After all, why should he want to bed a woman fifteen years his senior?

Except she was no longer forty-four, but going on fourteen. Everything inside her was in ferment, like the tulips; begging to be noticed, begging to be touched. And, soon, it would be too late – this one chance lost for ever. In just a few more days, these flowers would fade and shrivel, sag and wilt, close up; fit only for the dump. And she herself would slowly limp towards stagnation and sterility.

All at once, the phone rang. Fergus, she thought, darting over to pick it up. Tired of waiting for her call, he'd decided to ring
her
. The prospect was so overwhelming, she could barely find her voice to say hello.

‘Claire, it's Jenny Kirkland. Sorry to bother you again, but I was wondering if I could rope you in to help with—'

Immediately, she put the phone down, hoping Jenny would assume they'd been cut off. She
wouldn't
help. Not with any more good causes or tedious, worthy charities. Not with charity fêtes or school bazaars. Not with Rotary or Mencap or Age Concern or Drugscope. And, suddenly, impulsively, she dialled a number herself, to prevent Jenny ringing back – a number she had no right to dial; a number she was mad to dial; wicked and immoral to dial; an action she would most definitely regret.

‘Hi, Fergus here. Who's that?'

‘It's Claire,' she said, in a voice she didn't recognize – the brazen voice of the tulips, flaunting and flirtatious and refusing to be gagged. ‘I just thought I'd let you know that …' For one split second, she lost her nerve; had to hold her breath in an agonizing pause, but, screwing up her courage, she pictured Fergus naked in a flushed and frenzied fanfare of ardent orange flowers, and continued in a rush, ‘I'm ready to be ravished any time you care to choose.'

‘Washing-machine repair, ma'am.'

Angela stared in disbelief at the tall, gangling man standing on the doorstep. Slowly she registered each detail: the thick, unruly hair, the colour of ripe straw; the wary, long-lashed eyes, somewhere between grey and blue; the angular figure with the slight stoop to the shoulders, the high cheekbones, narrow face. The resemblance was uncanny. Of course, the clothes were totally different. Simon's usual attire was a sweater and blue jeans, whereas this man was wearing a uniform: a navy polo-shirt with HOOVER embroidered on the pocket, smart, black, working trousers and a navy anorak. His hands were different, too: broad and tanned, with bitten nails, rather than Simon's pale, slim, freckled ones. Even so, it—

‘Have I got the right address? You are Miss Blake? 16 Lonsdale Road?'

Shaken still, she nodded. ‘Yes … sorry. Do come in.'

‘So what seems to be the trouble?' he asked, stepping into the hall and wiping his feet on the non-existent doormat

Where did she begin? Even now, days later, she couldn't quite believe that Simon had walked out. They had been together two whole years; even talked of marriage, for God's sake. Yet that callous way he'd left, with no warning or discussion, just a cruel, curt note.

‘According to my work-sheet, you've had a few problems before.'

None at all. Since the day they'd met, she and Simon had never had the slightest tiff, let alone a serious quarrel.

‘A broken fan-belt, back in March.'

She tried to concentrate on broken machines rather than on
broken hearts. ‘Yes. And the pump went, in July. The other man said—'

‘Larry?' he interrupted. ‘He's no longer with us. He left the company and went to live up North. I've taken over his area.'

She could barely remember Larry – just a blur, a cipher, not this living embodiment of Simon.

The guy pointed to his name-badge. ‘Jack,' he said, putting down his tool-box and unfolding a sheet of paper.

She was almost disappointed that he didn't share Simon's name, along with his appearance. Even the way his hair grew was identical to Simon's; springing up in an exuberant, self-willed fashion, as if refusing to obey a barber or a comb.

‘Well, if you could show me the machine, ma'am….'

She ushered him into the kitchen – a dark and poky room, but with wild magenta walls. Although handy with a paintbrush, Simon refused to stick to conventional colours, like magnolia, or wishy-washy white. Their bedroom was electric-blue; their bathroom marigold.

She watched Jack manoeuvre the machine out from the wall, noting the ease with which he did so – a strong, capable type, like Simon. Then having unscrewed the top, he lifted it off, exposing an array of pipes and wires. She was in his way – she knew that. The kitchen was too cramped for them both, especially once he'd spread out his tools on a dustsheet on the floor. Yet she couldn't bring herself to leave. She had only to half-close her eyes to turn him into Simon – Simon here again, back again, life returned to normal.

‘Cup of tea?' she asked. If she spun out the tea-making process, she would have a perfect pretext to observe him.

‘No, ta.'

‘Coffee?'

‘No.'

‘Or I've got some fruit juice in the fridge.'

He shook his head; his concentration already focused on the task in hand. Well, she'd better ask about the machine; gain his attention that way. She just had to see his eyes again; that
blue-steel
gaze she knew so well. So far, he'd avoided eye-contact, whereas Simon always looked at people with direct and fierce intensity, as if he could read the inner secrets of their mind.

‘Have you any idea
why
it keeps breaking down?'

‘Could be anything.'

‘What sort of thing?' she persisted.

Still he didn't look up, just gave an impatient shrug. ‘Maybe a faulty thermostat. Or the outlet-pipe might be blocked with gunge. Or …'

His voice tailed off. He was here to do a practical job, not indulge in a theoretical discussion. She leaned against the sink, trying to work out whether he was older than Simon, or younger. Maybe the exact same age: two weeks short of thirty-four.

‘When's your birthday?' she asked suddenly.

He turned round to stare, wiping a smear of oil from his face. ‘What?'

‘I'm … interested in star-signs. Oh, I know people rubbish astrology, dismiss it as a con, but actually I'm not so sure. Loads of different societies believed in it for centuries, so maybe they were on to something. As for me, I get these strong gut-feelings about people and their birthdays. I can't explain it really – I've just always been that way.
You
, for instance, are almost certainly a Capricorn.'

‘Yeah,' he said, with a startled look. ‘Dead right. I'll be
thirty-four
in a fortnight – December 29.'

She shivered, half in fear. December 29 was Simon's birthday, too. The coincidence was just too great. Spooky and unsettling.

Silence again, apart from the squeal of the screwdriver and the intrusive ticking of the kitchen clock. Since Simon's departure, it had begun ticking more emphatically, as if counting out each second of his absence. And the days seemed twice as long. She had called in sick at work, and time now dragged and dawdled, with no 9 to 5, no structure, to pull it into shape. And nights alone in the double bed stretched to infinity and back, especially at this time of year, when it was dark from four in the afternoon to eight o'clock in the morning. Just a week to the winter solstice: the lowest, darkest, saddest day, and officially the shortest – although this year it would feel like the longest. Would it be dark and sad for Simon, or had he shacked up with someone new; some woman he'd been keeping secret but seeing on the sly? There was no proof, of course, but why else would he have left? In fact, at this very
moment, he might be with the hateful, scheming creature, running his hands down her naked, nubile body….

She blundered out of the room; found refuge in the lounge, although there was no escaping Simon. His photos hung on every wall – studies of London low-life: a homeless man stretched fulllength on a bench, wearing mismatched socks; a night-cleaner in a deserted office block, pausing in her dusting to stare out at the moon. Photographers were renowned for their sensitivity, so how could he have acted in such a brutal way?

She paced round and round the small, cluttered room, avoiding piles of books, lengths of wood, and Simon's half-built bookshelves. He'd been trying to finish the job since they'd moved here, back in March, but never seemed to find the time to do much more than tinker. Strange he hadn't taken his books with him, or his precious record collection – only his laptop and his Blackberry, his shaving gear and watch.

Having edged towards the door, she hovered just outside it, listening for sounds from the kitchen. She wanted to breathe Jack in; soak up his presence; put the smallest possible distance between them. If he was Simon's double, then it was vital she stay close.

Inexorably drawn back to him, she pretended she needed a glass of water, and stood running the kitchen tap, watching as he worked. As a child, she'd had a dog called Jack – a small,
wire-haired
, manic mongrel who'd slept on her bed at night, shared her weekly Mars Bars. She remembered crying into his fur the day her father left. Did
all
men leave, eventually? Perhaps it was built into their genes; part of the y-chromosome.

Jack was kneeling on the floor now, prising off the back of the machine. As he bent forward, a gap of naked flesh appeared between his trousers and his top. She gazed in fascination at the tiny golden hairs on his skin, which were glinting in the light; almost asking to be touched. Sultry-dark herself, she had always loved Simon's English fairness: the freckles on his arms; the way his hair turned lighter in the sun. Not that they'd seen the sun since the beginning of November. The weather had been continually overcast – moody, brooding, turned in on itself, as if going through a depressive phase, with no therapist to help.

Was Jack aware of the silence, she wondered? Unlikely. For him, she barely existed – just another job on his work-sheet; another anonymous client, forgotten by the evening. Her presence in the kitchen was of little more importance to him than the presence of the cooker or the sink. Yet, for her this was a godsend, and maybe in the literal sense. Some unknown power must have dispatched him here for a reason – as a sign of hope, perhaps. If she ignored his hands, his uniform, it was
Simon
who was kneeling at her feet.

‘Have you found the problem?' she asked, at length, longing to commune with him.

‘Yeah. Fan's gone again.'

‘But we only had a new one in the spring. And a complete overhaul, as well….' If necessary, she would discuss the machine's whole history – anything to keep him talking.

He shrugged. ‘Sometimes these things happen.'

‘But why?' She wanted answers – answers from Simon, some sort of explanation. A scribbled note was actually insulting, and had said nothing anyway.

‘Could be a defect in the belt. Or the drum may be overloaded. Are you putting too much in?'

Not now, she thought. This week's wash had looked pathetically small without Simon's shirts and socks, his pyjamas, gym-clothes, muddy walking gear.

‘I'll need to phone for a new one, OK?'

‘OK.' She hardly cared. It was other things that needed mending; more precious things, by far.

He snapped his mobile open, started spelling out her details to somebody the other end – name, house-number, street-name, postcode. ‘Nope,' he said, running a hand through his hair. ‘There seems to be a problem with the housing. The fan keeps sticking. Do you have a replacement?'

She envied him his work – practical and physical – manual work, not head-work. His mind was on pumps and fan-belts, not on absence, darkness, loss.

Shutting off the mobile, he sat back on his heels. She was aware of the black trousers straining over his thighs. Strong, skinny thighs, like Simon's. She imagined them now, straddling her body, or drawn up around her waist; the feel of his hot, sweaty skin as
he thrust and threshed against her. Simon made love in vivid, flaunting colour: marigold, electric-blue. Was
that
why he had gone – because she couldn't match his passion; was a ‘magnolia' kind of lover: tepid, safe and boring? Maybe he'd met a girl who rivalled him in sheer brilliance and flamboyance; a truly scarlet woman, torrid in the sack.

‘There isn't one in stock, so they'll have to ring around – see if they can get it somewhere else. They'll phone back in fifteen minutes.'

‘Oh … good. Look, let me make you a coffee now.'

He might want to wait outside in his van, snatch fifteen minutes' shut-eye, or sneak a cigarette, rather than share a cup of coffee with her. The thought induced a surge of panic, so she went to stand in the doorway, blocking his escape; talking really fast, to prevent him saying no again. ‘Actually, I could do with one myself. I'll make proper coffee for us both. How many sugars do you take? And do you prefer hot milk to cold? And if you fancy a biscuit, I bought a load last week….'

Simon had bought them, in fact – Christmas biscuits in a big, round, glossy tin, with a picture of the Horse Guards on the lid. He always picked out the chocolate ones, whilst she preferred the plain. ‘We're so compatible,' they used to laugh, in the early days, ‘even down to biscuits.' Perhaps the new female would also want the chocolate ones, and resent him pigging the lot. Tiny things like that could undermine relationships; destroy them in the end. And, with any luck, the bitch would get annoyed about his tardiness in doing household jobs; insist he got a move on, nag him till he snapped.

Reaching up for the tin, she prised off the lid and removed the padded gold-foil roundel lying on the top. How snug the biscuits looked, nestling close together in their matching gold-foil bed. She and Simon had been like that, snuggling up to one another beneath their padded duvet. Now she was a broken biscuit, a mass of useless crumbs.

‘Take several,' she urged, proffering Jack the tin.

‘Mind if I hog the chocolate ones? I'm mad for chocolate – any kind.'

Of course. She already knew that. ‘Well, have them all. Go down to the second layer.'

‘Are you trying to fatten me up?'

He sounded suspicious rather than amused. Perhaps he feared she was chatting him up, and might actually pounce, given any encouragement. She was tempted, in fact, just to pay Simon back. Instead, she edged away a little, busied herself with the coffee pot. When it came to coffee, Simon was a connoisseur; insisted that they buy it from the Italian delicatessen, whose proudly plump proprietor ground the beans to order. As she unscrewed the jar, the rich, deep-roasted, mocha smell brought memories of Sunday mornings: coffee in bed; papers jumbled on the floor; his kisses hot and pungent, tasting of Continental Blend.

She jumped as Jack's mobile rang. He answered through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘You got one? Great! I'll call by this evening and fetch it.'

As the kettle erupted in a shuddering boil, she experienced the same turmoil in her chest. So he'd be here again, this evening. Maybe spending hours with her, if the part proved hard to fit. She could make him supper – knew the kind of food he'd like: a chocolate pudding, obviously, with something male and meaty first:
carbonnade
of beef, perhaps, or steak in ale, or oxtail. Simon detested salads; jibbed even at a piece of fish, unless it was fried in batter.

Her hand was shaking as she poured the boiling water into the pot. ‘That's fine,' she said, once he'd rung off. ‘I'm not going out or anything.'