Heartbreak Hotel by Deborah Moggach Page B

the women, being an intellectual. A bit of the old T. S. Eliot and they’re creaming their pants.’ He drained his pint. ‘Should’ve finished me A levels. And you’ve kept your hair, you sod.’
    ‘I don’t want women. I want my wife.’
    ‘Have mine!’ Dennis laughed. ‘Actually, I’m fond of the old girl. Well, she’s had to put up with
me
, hasn’t she, for thirty years? Seen me through some ups and downs, as you very well know.’ Dennis was a wealthy property developer. At various low points, however, he and his family had been reduced to living in a caravan in Gravesend. ‘She sends her regards, by the way.’
    ‘Any gardening tips?’
    ‘Ha ha.’ He paused. ‘It’s just that sometimes a bloke wants to be let off the leash.’
    ‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’ Harold frowned at him. ‘Don’t scratch your hood.’
    ‘My scalp itches.’ Dennis stood up, to get more drinks. ‘Us Jews aren’t supposed to lose our hair. We’re a hairy race. It’s one of the reasons people resent us.’
    Harold eyed his head. ‘How much did you pay for that?’
    ‘Don’t ask. But it was the top guy in the business, little Indian bloke. Only the best for my beloved.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘So she can remember me when we were young, childhood sweethearts and all that.’ His shy smile both surprised and moved Harold. Good God, the man really loved his wife.
    That night Harold lay in the big double bed, listening to glass smashing down in the street. He hoped it wasn’t his car. Soon the crime would disappear; Dennis and his fellow developers would see to that. But in a strange way Harold would miss it, just as he missed the fireworks of his marriage. What was the point of getting up in the morning without the friction and the chats, the resentments and sudden, swooning intimacy, the everything else, even the bloody seedlings, of life with Pia? As he lay on his back, gazing at the ceiling, the cat walked over him. She trod on his testicles, as she always unerringly did, and settled down next to his face.
    Her sticky eyes gazed at him in the gloom; she purred, exhaling toxic breath. Harold flinched but he didn’t turn away, it would only offend her and then it would be sulks the next morning.

8
Buffy
    Voda was an adventurous cook; it was yet another of her talents. Apparently she had just perfected her sushi, using crayfish from the local stream, when Conor was arrested. That he was now languishing on a prison diet was one of the few things that upset her. Sometimes, when there was a darts match, she cooked supper for herself and Buffy before repairing to the pub. Sometimes, in fact, she stayed the night, sleeping in one of the unoccupied bedrooms. He suspected she was lonely in her cottage. She told him that her nearest neighbour was a recluse called Taffy, who lived in a caravan where he watched porn all day and made hooch by hanging marrows in ladies’ stockings to drip into a bowl.
    Buffy was glad of the company. He was fond of his sturdy helpmate with her flaming cheeks and spicy casseroles. Voda seldom asked about his past; like many country people she was only concerned with the here and now. He had presumed it was some rural survival instinct until he discovered that in fact she was born in Loughborough; her parents, lured by some cult, had moved to Wales where she and her brother had been brought up in a bender. Nobody was quite what they seemed, in Knockton as in life, and few of them turned out to be Welsh.
    Tonight she was cooking chicken in saffron for themselves and Nyange, who had arrived to help with the accounts. They sat in the kitchen. Curtains of damp sheets hung from the ceiling; the tumble dryer had broken.
    The account book lay open on the table. Nyange ran her finger down the page. Her nails were long and metallic green. ‘This place is haemorrhaging money,’ she said. ‘In fact, you’re hardly breaking even.’
    ‘Tell me about it,’ sighed Buffy.
    Voda, stirring the sauce,