was a pain in the bum. I can say that now.’
‘What happens if she comes back, her tail between her legs? Imagine how embarrassed you’d be.’
But Pia wasn’t coming back. After she had unburdened herself in the kitchen, after the tears and recriminations, the whisky-drinking into the small hours, she was a woman transformed. Relieved of her secret she was flushed with love, she looked ten years younger. As his wife packed up her belongings she had hummed –
hummed
. He had heard her through the door. A woman had done that, a slippery Japanese seal dressed in black. Hens and vegetables were forgotten, evaporated in a sapphic haze. Pia had treated him with the sort of offhand kindness she treated the cat, a bowl of Whiskas left out for him as she canoodled upstairs on her mobile. In a matter of weeks their marriage had vaporised as if it had never existed.
And she had wanted nothing. This had made it worse. Her passion existed on a rarer plane than mere possessions. The house was full of her stuff – the exercise bike, a Moroccan tagine that wouldn’t fit into the dishwasher, a dinosaur-era Polaroid camera, folksy tourist rubbish from holidays, a breadmaker, stuff,
stuff
, cupboards full of stuff. And all he wanted was her naked body in his arms.
‘I’ll help you if you want,’ said Annie.
Harold jumped. They were looking at the garden; sunlight shone on the leathery leaves of the ivy that smothered the wall. ‘I’ve got the time, now it’s the holidays,’ said Annie. ‘And my daughter’s off to Durham, did I tell you? She’s going to study marine biology, so that’s my little bird flown.’ Her arm was around his waist; she kneaded his flesh between her thumb and finger. ‘I could bring round a spade and get stuck in.’
The next day the phone rang. It was Melanie, another single parent, who lived a few streets away. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Need any help with the garden? I’ve only got a balcony, I hate being cooped up in this weather, and my son would love to see your hens.’
She appeared that afternoon with a bottle of wine in her hand. She wore denim shorts and a vest top.
‘Sorry about my little one, I forgot he had to go to a birthday party. Maybe I could bring him back an egg.’ Melanie’s hair, newly washed, swung around her shoulders as she walked down the path. ‘Is that an apple tree? And what are those long purple things? I’m hopeless, I’m
so
not a gardener but I’m longing to learn, your wife was so clever, it’s like another world out here, a little bit of paradise.’ Harold followed her. The cheeks of Melanie’s buttocks moved from side to side in the tiny shorts. ‘God, you’re so lucky,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I’d kill for a garden.’
Harold’s mobile rang. It was Allie, the ex-wife of his squash partner. ‘I’ve researched weedkillers,’ she said. ‘What you need for the nettles is glyphosate. I can bring some round, you just paint it on the leaves, it’s totally harmless. And if you like, I could stop at Marks on the way and bring us something to eat?’
‘Didn’t take long, did they?’ Dennis spluttered with laughter. ‘I knew it. Couple of months and they’re crawling out of the woodwork, panting for it.’
Harold wished he hadn’t told him, it seemed disloyal to the women concerned. ‘They’re only trying to help,’ he said.
‘Yes, dear.’ Dennis patted his hand.
‘With the garden. It’s all got a bit beyond me.’
‘And have we got our leg over yet?’
‘Is that all you think about?’
‘Yep.’
They were sitting in a pub on the Essex Road. Dennis was halfway through a hair transplant and had to keep his head covered. Though it was a sweltering day he wore his son’s hoodie; in it, he resembled a porky, middle-aged mugger caught on CCTV.
He sighed. ‘You’re a lucky fucker, Harry.’ He was the only person who called him Harry. ‘A pussy-magnet at your age.
Our
age. But then you’ve always pulled
‘What happens if she comes back, her tail between her legs? Imagine how embarrassed you’d be.’
But Pia wasn’t coming back. After she had unburdened herself in the kitchen, after the tears and recriminations, the whisky-drinking into the small hours, she was a woman transformed. Relieved of her secret she was flushed with love, she looked ten years younger. As his wife packed up her belongings she had hummed –
hummed
. He had heard her through the door. A woman had done that, a slippery Japanese seal dressed in black. Hens and vegetables were forgotten, evaporated in a sapphic haze. Pia had treated him with the sort of offhand kindness she treated the cat, a bowl of Whiskas left out for him as she canoodled upstairs on her mobile. In a matter of weeks their marriage had vaporised as if it had never existed.
And she had wanted nothing. This had made it worse. Her passion existed on a rarer plane than mere possessions. The house was full of her stuff – the exercise bike, a Moroccan tagine that wouldn’t fit into the dishwasher, a dinosaur-era Polaroid camera, folksy tourist rubbish from holidays, a breadmaker, stuff,
stuff
, cupboards full of stuff. And all he wanted was her naked body in his arms.
‘I’ll help you if you want,’ said Annie.
Harold jumped. They were looking at the garden; sunlight shone on the leathery leaves of the ivy that smothered the wall. ‘I’ve got the time, now it’s the holidays,’ said Annie. ‘And my daughter’s off to Durham, did I tell you? She’s going to study marine biology, so that’s my little bird flown.’ Her arm was around his waist; she kneaded his flesh between her thumb and finger. ‘I could bring round a spade and get stuck in.’
The next day the phone rang. It was Melanie, another single parent, who lived a few streets away. ‘How are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Need any help with the garden? I’ve only got a balcony, I hate being cooped up in this weather, and my son would love to see your hens.’
She appeared that afternoon with a bottle of wine in her hand. She wore denim shorts and a vest top.
‘Sorry about my little one, I forgot he had to go to a birthday party. Maybe I could bring him back an egg.’ Melanie’s hair, newly washed, swung around her shoulders as she walked down the path. ‘Is that an apple tree? And what are those long purple things? I’m hopeless, I’m
so
not a gardener but I’m longing to learn, your wife was so clever, it’s like another world out here, a little bit of paradise.’ Harold followed her. The cheeks of Melanie’s buttocks moved from side to side in the tiny shorts. ‘God, you’re so lucky,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I’d kill for a garden.’
Harold’s mobile rang. It was Allie, the ex-wife of his squash partner. ‘I’ve researched weedkillers,’ she said. ‘What you need for the nettles is glyphosate. I can bring some round, you just paint it on the leaves, it’s totally harmless. And if you like, I could stop at Marks on the way and bring us something to eat?’
‘Didn’t take long, did they?’ Dennis spluttered with laughter. ‘I knew it. Couple of months and they’re crawling out of the woodwork, panting for it.’
Harold wished he hadn’t told him, it seemed disloyal to the women concerned. ‘They’re only trying to help,’ he said.
‘Yes, dear.’ Dennis patted his hand.
‘With the garden. It’s all got a bit beyond me.’
‘And have we got our leg over yet?’
‘Is that all you think about?’
‘Yep.’
They were sitting in a pub on the Essex Road. Dennis was halfway through a hair transplant and had to keep his head covered. Though it was a sweltering day he wore his son’s hoodie; in it, he resembled a porky, middle-aged mugger caught on CCTV.
He sighed. ‘You’re a lucky fucker, Harry.’ He was the only person who called him Harry. ‘A pussy-magnet at your age.
Our
age. But then you’ve always pulled
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