‘You’re joking, right? Anyway, I figured we’d talk all the time about everything, like you and me do. Understand each other.’
‘I think you’re overrating conversation, Jack. Sure, Bernice can talk the hind legs off a donkey. I can hardly finish a single darn thought, some days.’
‘You don’t get it. You and Bernice play guitar together, for Christ’s sake. It’s all working out how you planned it to. You suit each other. Me and Billie, well. It’s not her fault, but she’s not really my type.’ He’d meant this to sound sophisticated and funny, but hearing it out loud he instantly knew it wasn’t.
Pause, while they’d opened more beers. Then Jack sighed. ‘I missed first kisses. I love first kisses. And first looks. When I look at Colette, something still changes in her eyes. Like I’m switching on the goddamn Christmas tree lights.’
‘Aha! That’s it. I know what your problem is, Jack.’
‘Oh crap, here we go.’
‘Jack MacAlister. You’re a fucking romantic and always have been.’ (Jack smirked and lit a cigarette, flattered.) ‘You want what’s out of reach, and imagine it’s perfect. But when you get it, you find fault with that too. God, poor Billie. Poor Colette! Who next?’
‘I never chase women, Ernie. Colette chased me. I am not a predator.’
‘I did not say that. That would be sleazy. You are not sleazy, Jack.’
‘Correct, I am not sleazy. I am…reluctant to hurt a girl’s feelings, that’s what.’
‘I’ll tell you something for nothing, Jack.’ He’d begun slurring. Shomething for noshing.
‘What?’
‘Sometimes I wish I was married to Billie.’
‘No. Really? No.’ He could see two Ernies now. Amazing. Two entirely separate Ernies preaching to him. How was he going to drive home?
‘Do not ever remind me I said that. I want that erased from your memory right this very minute.’
‘Gone.’
‘But it’s true, Jack. Bernice can be very annoying. You have to stay on your toes all the time, because she’s so fucking smart. She’s a fucking mind reader. At least with Billie, your thoughts are your own. Your life is your own. I almost wish I was doing it too. Getting some extra marital, while I still can.’
‘Jesus, Ernie, aren’t you?’
‘Are you kidding? She’d know instantly and then she’d kill me. The whole thing would be over in a day, and I would be dead.’
That was yesterday, blind drunk at midday. Ernie had to make do with what he had, but Jack – well, Jack now had exactly what he wanted. In addition to a hangover. He got up, but Colette pushed him back down onto his sunlounger. Her crotch was inches from his mouth.
‘You stay right where you are, Jack. I’ll get you a nice tall drink.’
‘Here you are,’ said Billie, and as she handed Jeff his glass, her robe briefly opened enough for a glimpse of white thighs, and three-quarters of one milky white breast. Jeff took the glass but didn’t drink. Billie started to feel the beginnings of uneasiness. Was Jeff asthmatic? Then Jeff put his glass down, pulled her to him so quickly, so clumsily, so adolescently, that at first she was not frightened. She was amused and angered in equal measure. As if it was sweet Mister Rogers who was groping her by mistake. He’d just meant to button up his sweater and got confused. ‘Stop it,’ she scolded. ‘Knock it off!’ she said with more seriousness, when his hands slid inside her robe.
Kick him in the balls, screamed Louise from the roof. Poke his eyes out!
But Billie was not prepared for this. She could not fabricate aggression quickly enough, and found her polite self, her protective mother self, still in operation. Willy was in the other room, and must not be alarmed. This was her own fault, her own dilemma and she must solve it quietly. His hands on her body were so strange, a part of herself detached and noticed that his skin was not as rough as Jack’s, but his fingers were more insistent, and there was an odour emanating from him now. Unpleasant, but she couldn’t think what it was. She had time, while he pulled at her robe and she held tight to it, to wonder if he smelled of rotten eggs mixed with deodorant, or was this the essential smell of male horniness? She kept saying: ‘Stop it!’ in a low hissing voice. ‘It’s all right,’ he kept saying. ‘Calm down.’ His face was ugly now. He smiled. Then they fell to the deck, and he pinned both her hands together above her head before she had a chance to struggle. With his other hand, he fumbled with his jeans. His body had a density she had not guessed at. He was stronger than Jack. She went limp and told herself: this is what men do to women sometimes. What bodies do to other bodies. How extraordinary it’s happening to me. Then she wondered if she was getting splinters on her bottom. The deck was redwood and terrible for splinters. Even Louise gave up and whispered in a practical tone: Hold still, sis. He’s a cunt, but he won’t hurt you. Just ignore him and let him finish before Willy comes looking for you.
Then Willy cried out from the living room, a sudden sharp whelp as if he’d fallen, and Billie found she had strength after all. She squirmed hard sideways and freed herself while Jeff was still trying to open his jeans.
Jack swallowed his morning martini and felt a bit flat. Maybe a blow job would cheer him up. It was weird to be home on a weekday. Weird to call this place home. Maybe Ernie was right, and soon Colette would drive him crazy too. Watching Colette swim back and forth in the turquoise pool put him in a trance, which melted into a nap. When the phone rang, at first he thought it was part of his dream.
‘Billie? What is it?’
‘Slow down. What?’
‘What the fuck? Jeff from number 23?’
‘Who is it?’ called Colette, emerging from the pool like Venus – the body of an eighteen-year-old, not a stretch mark on her.
Jack didn’t reply. Hurtled out of the house with his car keys. If he married Colette tomorrow, if they never argued, if they had endless stimulating conversations, incredible sex, it would still only ever be a secondary marriage. A perfectly formed, easily executed but trivial, shallow marriage. The real thing, the primary connection, would always be with his sweet-kneed, cock-eyebrowed, stubborn Billie. He imagined the space he used to take up, that space exactly his body shape, patiently waiting for him to resume his old rightful life. He pressed harder on the accelerator, hit eighty-five.
But there was someone else at his old home, a vaguely familiar woman, and it looked like her kid was playing with Willy, pushing little cars and making engine noises. And this stranger had an arm around Billie, like they were old friends. They turned to stare at him, and he suddenly remembered he was supposed to knock on the door first. That was their agreement.
‘Jack, remember Irene? From across the road.’ Billie did not meet his eyes.
‘Nice to see you again, Jack.’
He ignored Irene. ‘Billie? You okay?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Irene. Then: ‘Can I make you a coffee, Jack?’
‘No,’ he answered, his eyes still on his wife. How dare this Irene offer him coffee in his own house! He bought those stupid mugs. He fumed and fussed, and checked that the plants on the windowsill had been watered and that the kitchen taps weren’t leaking again. Then the kids came home early from school because of a power cut. The boys grunted their hellos and disappeared into their rooms. Elisabeth said hello, then loitered awhile, making herself a sandwich.
Nothing had been said about Jeff. No one had remarked on the fact Jack was here on an unscheduled visit, and Billie seemed to be having a very lazy day, still in her bathrobe. Even Willy seemed oblivious. Now he was methodically emptying out alphabet blocks from one dumper truck to another, while the other toddler rolled playdough into tiny balls then squashed them together again. Jack could not get near Billie. His old home conspired to make him feel unwelcome; no Jack-shaped vacuum waiting for his return after all. It seemed recent history had entirely removed his right to protect his wife. But she’d phoned him first. Not Irene.
‘What are you doing here, anyway? It’s not your visit day,’ snarled Elisabeth, halfway through a peanut butter sandwich. He flinched and declined to answer. Traitor daughter! He’d talk her round, next time. She belonged to him; they were buddies, goddammit.
