Authors: Graham Hurley
‘
He
’
s a dickhead,
’
she raved.
‘
He
’
s self-obsessed, he
’
s weak, he lies
all the time, and he puts it about
wherever he thinks he can get a free
ride. There are no free rides, Julie. I
’
m just telling you, that
’
s all. Just
telling you.
’
I thought hard of something to say. Thank you seemed appropriate.
‘
Another thing. You
’
ll find he
’
s very persuasive. You
’
ll think he
cares. You
’
ll think he can
’
t possibly have said all those wonderful
things to anyone else. And just when he
’
s got you where he really
wants you, he
’
ll bugger off again. It
’
s too early for that yet, way too
early, but just have a think about the rest of what I
’
ve said.
’
She glared
at me, demanding a reaction.
‘
Well?
’
I was wondering, by now, just how much she knew about us both. In
truth, it only amounted to a couple of hours of the most sensational
oral sex ever but even that was enough to have lit a very big fire indeed,
so maybe she had a point. Either way, she definitely wanted him back,
and the harder she tried to disguise it, the more obvious it became.
Given last night, I can
’
t say I blamed her and it crossed my mind that
the marriage might have been a lot stronger than Brendan had so far
admitted.
‘
We
’
re friends,
’
I said.
‘
It
’
s got nothing to do with you breaking up.
’
‘
It
’
s not? So how come you know about it?
’
‘
Everyone knows about it.
’
‘
But you know more about it, huh? You know lots and lots about it,
huh? Because he
’
s told you, am I right?
’
In this mood, Sandra was a force of nature, like wind off a rock face,
gusting Force Zillion. I spun on my rope, hanging on like mad.
‘
He
’
s told me practically nothing,
’
I said wearily.
‘
And in case you
’
re
wondering, I haven
’
t asked, either.
’
‘
Why not?
’
Sandra was outraged.
‘
Because it
’
s none of my business.
’
‘
So what is your business? Is my husband your business?
’
I didn
’
t answer. Then I told her about the windsurfing. The day on
the coast had been his idea, not mine. Me? I was cheap tuition, nothing
more. Sandra followed this aside with an interest I sensed was
unfeigned.
‘
So how did he do?
’
‘
He was terrible. Completely clueless.
’
She threw back her head and barked with laughter and for a second
or two there was an expression on her face that I recognised as
affection. Not just the oral sex, I thought. Not just the wild nights. She
loves him.
She really does.
She was slumped in the chair now, her long fingers entwined around
a pencil. She was a tall, angular, raw-boned woman. The set of her face
told you everything, barely caging the passions inside.
‘
He
’
s crazy about you,
’
she announced wistfully.
‘
You know that,
don
’
t you? He
’
s been crazy about you since the day you turned up.
Live with a man long enough, and you can read it in his face. He
wanted you and now he
’
s got you. I should have been a weather
forecaster.
I
’
m never bloody wrong.
’
‘
But you think it will pass,
’
I pointed out.
‘
So what
’
s the problem?
’
‘
Him. He is. Brendan
’
s the problem. That
’
s what I
’
m trying to tell
you, Julie. That
’
s why I asked you up here. You think it
’
s wonderful. I
can see it. He
’
s your boss. He
’
s the older man. All that experience. All
those stories. He
’
s so funny. He
’
s
so wise. He
’
s so accomplished,
so
good at everything.
’
She paused, shaking her head.
‘
But it
’
s not what
you think it is. It just isn
’
t.
’
‘
I
don
’
t think anything.
It
’
s not like that.
’
‘
Then what is it like?
’
‘
I
don
’
t know.
’
I was looking hard at the Egon Shiele print on her
wall.
‘
You
’
re right, he
’
s said things, lots of over-the-top things, but I
’
m
not sure I take them seriously.
’
‘
Not yet you don
’
t.
’
‘
Maybe not ever. I just don
’
t know.
’
‘
But you
’
ll try, won
’
t you?
’
She nodded, winding herself up again.
‘
Bet your sweet fanny you
’
ll try. That
’
s his gift, you see, that
’
s his
special talent. He becomes the proposition you can
’
t resist. You think
he
’
s
flaky, he’ll
prove you wrong. You think he
’
s
totally
coked out of his head
most of the time, he
’
s suddenly Mr Clean. You think he
’
s sold out, he
’
ll
come on strong with all that documentary shit. Am I right, Julie? Am I
getting warm?
’
It was my turn to listen hard. This was a Brendan I recognised. This
was the man who
’
d saved my life, cooked me a wonderful meal, and
crowned it with an unforgettable desert. Fruit salad would never taste
the same again.
‘
Well?
’
She was watching me, amused.
‘
I
don
’
t know,
’
I repeated.
‘
But you
’
ll damn sure find out?
’
I looked her in the eye, realising all too late that there was a great
deal more to this woman than I
’
d ever suspected. Not just the bitch-
queen. Not just the manic phone calls from the third floor. But a
human being.
Hurting.
‘
I
’
m sorry,
’
I
said, getting to my feet,
‘
But it
’
s not my problem.
’
Sandra shook her head, part sorrow, part anger.
‘
Not yet it isn
’
t,
’
she said, tossing the pen
cil onto the desk then
turning
away.
I moved in with Brendan that night. At first it was a strictly temporary
arrangement, a form of camping-out that we both accepted as a kind
of foreplay. We had to get to know each other. We had to bend to each
other
’
s funny little ways. Quickly, though, we acquired a routine that
itself became a cement that hardened the relationship, turning it into
something semi-permanent.
Every morning, we got up even earlier than usual, driving the five
miles up to Tottenham Green for me to attend to the cats. Ideally, of
course, the cats should have come with me - just like my cardboard
boxes full of CDs and favourite paperbacks - but Brendan turned out
to be allergic to cats so a change of address for Pinot and Noir was out
of the question. Instead, I fed them every morning and evening, leaving
them out during the day. As the weeks went by, I became aware that
they were growing more and more wild but we were still months away
from Nikki
’
s return and when I thought about the question at all, I
told myself that there was plenty of time to coax them back to
domesticity.
Quite when that would
happen, I didn
’
t know.
Despite
Sandra
’
s dire warnings
, life with Brendan was undeniably sweet. The manic, gaunt-
faced forty-year-old I
’
d met back in January quickly faded from view.
In his place, I found myself living with a warm, funny, surprisingly
practical man who had a rare talent for finding the middle ground
between domestic routine and the wild, off-the-wall pantomime that
was life at Doubleact.
Often, during the week, we stayed in, hopelessly content, endlessly
talking, forever comparing professional notes. Simply by listening, I
learned a great deal about the hard practicalities of what I really
wanted to do, about how difficult it was to resist the contagion of the
marketplace, though the more I learned, the steadier became my
resolve to give documentaries a try. This, in turn, caught Brendan
’
s
interest and he became, I think, genuinely fascinated by what he called
my blind eye.
It was all of a piece, he said, with the other bits of me that he loved.
My energy. My gutsiness. My crude belief in the benefits of physical
exercise. The latter had taken us to a nearby park at weekends. I
’
d
bought Brendan a tracksuit for his birthday, and a decent pair of
Reeboks, and after a month of regular outings we were up to six miles
at a reasonable pace with no stops. It was the first time for years that
Brendan had risked serious exercise and the flood of endorphines
afterwards entranced him. It was, he confided, infinitely better than
cocaine, and infinitely cheaper, too.
It was after these outings that the sex was best of all and after a
leisurely shower we
’
d bury the rest of the afternoon beneath the duvet.
He was a brilliant lover and the times we shared slowly pulled me clear
of Gilbert
’
s shadow. I thought about him less and less. Emotionally,
and in real life, he became practically invisible, a person of no account.
Mornings and evenings, in our trips to Napier Road, we never saw
him, or even heard him. The only sign that he was still in residence was
the occasional movement in the window upstairs as fingers plucked at
the ever-closed curtains.