Brendan. He actually took
her by the forearm and pulled her aside. I saw her flinch. Her mouth hardened
for an instant.
'There, there,' he cooed into my ear.
'There, there, Mirrie. I'm here. I'm here.'
I closed the bedroom door and picked up
the phone.
'Laura!' I said. I kept my voice low, so
they couldn't hear me. 'Listen, Laura, this thing's happened. I need to speak
to someone about it...'
'Are you telling me,' said Laura when I'd
finished. 'Are you seriously saying that Brendan crept back into your flat and on
purpose flooded your flat?'
'Yes.'
'Why on earth?'
'Because he's weird; he's got this thing
about me.'
'Oh, come on. I've let the bath run over
loads of times,' she said. 'It's really easy to just forget about it.'
'But I don't do things like that.'
'There's a first time for everything. It's
a more likely explanation than yours, isn't it?'
'I remember cleaning out the bath.
Vividly.'
'There you are, then. You put the plug
back in, hosed down the tub, then left the water running a bit.'
I gave up trying to persuade her. It was
starting to seem possible even to me, and I'd been there and knew it hadn't
happened. And anyway, it was just too tiring.
CHAPTER 13
The couple who lived in the house in
Ealing had hired two skips, and they were already almost full. When I left, I
peered into them. Among the jumble of old rugs, chipped plates, broken
furniture, I saw a computer that looked quite new, a laser printer, two
telephones, a large oil painting of a greyhound, several cookery books, a
standard lamp, a wicker basket. I should be used to it by now. I often see
people throw away TVs still under guarantee, year-old cookers and perfectly
functioning fridges. In my job, we're always ripping out new things and
substituting the even newer. Last year's fashions are replaced with this
year's. Whole kitchens disappear into skips, bathtubs and beds and cupboards,
garden sheds and miles of shelving. Recycling centres are mountains of
obsolescence. It gives us extra work, I suppose. The people we do jobs for are
always talking about beginning again, as if the stainless steel and glass that
we're installing everywhere at the moment won't soon be replaced by
old-fashioned, newly trendy wood. Everything comes round again. Every decade
falls out of favour and then re-emerges in a slightly different form, like the
flares on my trousers, which Bill is always laughing about because they remind
him of when he was young in the Seventies.
I surreptitiously reached in and pulled
out a cookery book. I'd rescue that at least. Recipes from Spain. I put it in
my hold-all, along with my paintbrushes.
At home, Brendan was making a great fuss
about washing up a few bowls and Kerry was standing over the stove, stirring
something. She looked sticky and irritable.
'We're cooking for you tonight,' she said.
'Thanks.'
I took a beer from the fridge and retreated
to the bathroom. What I needed was hot water on the outside of my body and cold
alcohol on the inside of my body. I was lying in the bath feeling pleasantly
woozy when the door opened and Brendan came in. I sat up abruptly and hunched
my knees against my body. As if he were alone, he took a piss into the lavatory
which was next to the bath. He zipped himself up, rinsed his hands and turned
to me with a smile.
'Excuse me,' I said sharply.
'Yes?' He stood over me.
'Get out.'
'Sorry?'
'Get the fuck out of here. I'm in the
bath.'
'You should have locked the door,' he
said.
'You know there isn't a lock,' I said.
'There you are, then.'
'And you haven't flushed it. Oh, for God's
sake.'
I stood up and reached for a towel.
Brendan took it from the rail and held it just out of reach. He was looking at
my body. He had a strange expression, a triumphant smirk. He was like a little
boy who had never seen a naked woman before.
'Give me the fucking towel, Brendan.'
'It's not as if I haven't seen your naked
body before.'
He gave me the towel and I wrapped
her by the forearm and pulled her aside. I saw her flinch. Her mouth hardened
for an instant.
'There, there,' he cooed into my ear.
'There, there, Mirrie. I'm here. I'm here.'
I closed the bedroom door and picked up
the phone.
'Laura!' I said. I kept my voice low, so
they couldn't hear me. 'Listen, Laura, this thing's happened. I need to speak
to someone about it...'
'Are you telling me,' said Laura when I'd
finished. 'Are you seriously saying that Brendan crept back into your flat and on
purpose flooded your flat?'
'Yes.'
'Why on earth?'
'Because he's weird; he's got this thing
about me.'
'Oh, come on. I've let the bath run over
loads of times,' she said. 'It's really easy to just forget about it.'
'But I don't do things like that.'
'There's a first time for everything. It's
a more likely explanation than yours, isn't it?'
'I remember cleaning out the bath.
Vividly.'
'There you are, then. You put the plug
back in, hosed down the tub, then left the water running a bit.'
I gave up trying to persuade her. It was
starting to seem possible even to me, and I'd been there and knew it hadn't
happened. And anyway, it was just too tiring.
CHAPTER 13
The couple who lived in the house in
Ealing had hired two skips, and they were already almost full. When I left, I
peered into them. Among the jumble of old rugs, chipped plates, broken
furniture, I saw a computer that looked quite new, a laser printer, two
telephones, a large oil painting of a greyhound, several cookery books, a
standard lamp, a wicker basket. I should be used to it by now. I often see
people throw away TVs still under guarantee, year-old cookers and perfectly
functioning fridges. In my job, we're always ripping out new things and
substituting the even newer. Last year's fashions are replaced with this
year's. Whole kitchens disappear into skips, bathtubs and beds and cupboards,
garden sheds and miles of shelving. Recycling centres are mountains of
obsolescence. It gives us extra work, I suppose. The people we do jobs for are
always talking about beginning again, as if the stainless steel and glass that
we're installing everywhere at the moment won't soon be replaced by
old-fashioned, newly trendy wood. Everything comes round again. Every decade
falls out of favour and then re-emerges in a slightly different form, like the
flares on my trousers, which Bill is always laughing about because they remind
him of when he was young in the Seventies.
I surreptitiously reached in and pulled
out a cookery book. I'd rescue that at least. Recipes from Spain. I put it in
my hold-all, along with my paintbrushes.
At home, Brendan was making a great fuss
about washing up a few bowls and Kerry was standing over the stove, stirring
something. She looked sticky and irritable.
'We're cooking for you tonight,' she said.
'Thanks.'
I took a beer from the fridge and retreated
to the bathroom. What I needed was hot water on the outside of my body and cold
alcohol on the inside of my body. I was lying in the bath feeling pleasantly
woozy when the door opened and Brendan came in. I sat up abruptly and hunched
my knees against my body. As if he were alone, he took a piss into the lavatory
which was next to the bath. He zipped himself up, rinsed his hands and turned
to me with a smile.
'Excuse me,' I said sharply.
'Yes?' He stood over me.
'Get out.'
'Sorry?'
'Get the fuck out of here. I'm in the
bath.'
'You should have locked the door,' he
said.
'You know there isn't a lock,' I said.
'There you are, then.'
'And you haven't flushed it. Oh, for God's
sake.'
I stood up and reached for a towel.
Brendan took it from the rail and held it just out of reach. He was looking at
my body. He had a strange expression, a triumphant smirk. He was like a little
boy who had never seen a naked woman before.
'Give me the fucking towel, Brendan.'
'It's not as if I haven't seen your naked
body before.'
He gave me the towel and I wrapped
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