"Tom!" she calls, as I fight my way into the car. "Thankyou for the flowers, Tom. You'll be back, Tom. I know you will. I love you, Tom. You will be back. ......I've still got your trousers."
As I drive away I can see her standing in the middle of her front garden. She has abandoned modesty, and is waving both bunches of flowers above her head.
I see curtains twitching all about. There will be something for the neighbours to discuss over tea tonight.
Are you still following this story? I'm not going too fast for you, am I? You weren't expecting more sex just now were you? I hope you weren't. It really isn't that kind of story.
Listen. I keep trying to explain to you, this is a story about a man who loves his wife. That's all. Oh, and he's going through some sort of crisis. Well, quite a big crisis really. But it will all sort itself out in the end. This isn't one of those stories with an enigmatic ending. I promise you that. Just as soon as I've killed my wife, it will all sort itself out. You'll see.
Look. Noone will get hurt. I won't hurt her. I love her too much to hurt her. The hurt has happened already. It happened to me. But I'll be alright. I'll get over it. One day.
Have you noticed that I'm running away again? Why does that always seem to happen? And how am I going to get back into work with no trousers?
Running away. It seems to happen all the time, but this time I think it has given me an idea.
I drive towards the local park and stop in the layby. I take off my shirt and socks. I still have my vest and pants on. My tie is still loosely draped around the collar of the shirt. I take it and tie it around my forehead, the loose end dangling down my back. There is noone much around, just a couple of mothers walking their babies and a bunch of teenagers playing football in the distance.
I get out of the car and start to run. This time I'm not running away. This time I'm a jogger!
I run round the perimeter path of the park. Noone takes any notice of me. I pass the mothers with their prams, they don't even look up from their conversation as I pass. I run on round towards the footballers. In time honoured tradition they have piled their track suits into heaps at either end of the pitch to mark the goal mouths. They ignore me as I approach.
When I get level with the first goal I make a sudden sortie onto the pitch and grab at one of the goal posts. Success! I have two track suit tops and one bottom. The boys stand open mouthed at my antics, and not one of them gives chase.
"Emergency," I shout as I disappear. "Police business. Probably be on Crimewatch this evening. Thankyou for your assistance!"
Listen. I do feel guilty about that, but what else could I do? I couldn't just walk back into work with no trousers, now. Could I?
Listen. Be reasonable. I mean, what would you have done?
CHAPTER 10
Geoffrey arrived fifteen minutes early for his appointment. The address was easy to find, but a little more seedy than he had imagined. He almost had second thoughts, and had to walk aound the block to compose himself.
It was not an entirely unexpected finding, though he had convinced himself that the whole enterprise would be a little more salubrious. Fortunately he had rehearsed in his mind how he would react in this eventuality, and a few minutes walking was sufficient for him to regain his resolve.
At two minutes to the appointed time he took a deep breath and walked in.
Now, two hours later, as he emerged, he felt good. He was glad he had had the courage to follow it through. It hadn't been cheap, and it had all been a little tawdry, but all in all he was satisfied. He tucked his package under his arm, and, whistling gently to himself, strolled back towards the train.
***
I arrive back at the office just before five. There are hoots of laughter as I enter. Even Julie joins in. I try to look nonchalant, but it isn't easy wearing a tracksuit bottom four sizes too small, and wearing only one shoe.
"Personal fitness," I say. "Very important to take regular excercise."
The laughter continues, aided by some ribald comments that I don't catch. Well I do catch the odd words, like 'stupid pratt', but I try not to react. I do a couple of deep knee bends before sitting down at my desk.
"You ought to try it," I continue. "I feel wonderful. Must've done twenty miles at least today."
"And where the hell have you been?"
I nearly jump out of my skin. Mr Hudson has come out of his office, attracted by the noise, no doubt.
"Not sex," I say. "Definitely not sex. Whatever gave you that idea?"
"What the hell are you babbling about man?"
"Filming. Yes, got caught up in some filming. Needed me as an extra. It turns out I'm the exact double of this film actor. They didn't have a stunt man, you see, and they couldn't risk him because of the insurance. So they asked me. Motorcycles. It was a war film I think. Something about an escape from a P.O.W. camp. I had to outride the Gestapo and jump a barbed wire barrier. I didn't do the sex scene, though. Drew the line at that. I think it's degrading to women, don't you?"
I can tell he doesn't believe me. I can tell that noone believes me. I look to Julie for help, but I can see that even she doesn't believe me.
"I didn't do it," I say to Julie. "I wouldn't. I think it must have been the champagne. Perhaps she isn't used to it."
"I don't understand, Mr F," she replies. "What champagne?"
"Did I say champagne? I meant........." But I've run out of words. Everyone is waiting for me, and I've run out of words.
When I was a boy, I thought you only had a set number of words, and that when you'd used up your stock of a particular word that was it. You couldn't ever use it again. If you tried to, all that came out was silence. I decided to test out my theory by choosing a word and saying it over and over to see if I could use up my supply. I chose a word that I could live without, of course. I wasn't entirely stupid.
I chose wombat. For days I walked around saying wombat, wombat, wombat. But I never used it up. I lost interest after a while and stopped, but I sometimes wonder how many wombats I've got left.
"Well?" asks Mr Hudson.
My mouth is going up and down, but no sound is coming out.
"I'll look after him, Mr Hudson," Julie says, and she comes over to my desk and puts her hand on my shoulder. "Let's take this off for a start shall we, Mr F?" She reaches up and unties the tie from around my forehead. "Now then, how would you like a nice cup of tea?"
"What day is it?" I ask, as Julie makes the tea.
"It's Thursday, Mr F. All day." She smiles at her own little joke. She's beautiful. I really am falling in love with her.
"Is it?" I say. "I keep thinking it's Tuesday." The image of hippopotami comes into my mind briefly, but it soon goes. I wonder why?
Julie brings me the tea. The rest of the office has packed up and gone home while the tea was brewing. Even Mr Hudson has left tonight. Usually he's the last to go. He just shook his head at me as he passed and said nothing. I think he isn't pleased with me recently.
She sits on the corner of my desk warming her hands on her own cup. I've noticed her do that before. It's one of her little mannerisms. I suppose everyone has mannerisms, but you are never conscious of your own are you? I wonder if I have any?
"Do I have any mannerisms?"
"Sorry, Mr F. What was that?"
"I said, 'do I have any mannerisms?'. You know, funny little behaviours or odd things that I do."
"Oh, you shouldn't take any notice of them, Mr F."
"Take any notice of what?"
"The others, Mr F. Just ignore them."
"Who do you mean?"
"The others. In the office. Just ignore them."
"How can I ignore them? We have to work together."
"Yes, Mr F. I know you have to work with them. But just ignore them when they laugh at you."
Do they laugh at me? Why? Am I funny? Perhaps I have a very odd mannerism. One that is truly eccentric. I wonder what it is? Please don't let me be eccentric.
r />
"What exactly do they laugh at?" I ask.
"Oh, nothing, Mr.F. They're just silly people."
"You don't laugh at me."
"No, Mr F. I think you're sweet. I like working with you."
She said that before. She said she liked me the other day. I think she must love me. I think perhaps we are in love with each other.
"Will you marry me, Julie?" I ask.
She coughs on her tea. "But you are already married Mr.F. Whatever would your wife say if she could hear you now?"
My wife would be delighted, I think. "Afterwards, I meant. When she's gone."
"Gone, Mr F? Where is she going?"
"Going? Oh, nowhere. Not anywhere."
We sit and contemplate our tea for a few seconds. Julie smiles at me. She is sitting on the desk, facing me. With her legs crossed. I want to put my hand on her thigh, but my arm muscle won't let me.
"Why won't you call me Tom?" I ask.
"I do call you Tom, don't I, Mr F?"
I smile back at her. "Yes," I say. "Perhaps you do."
We look at our tea again. "I love you, Julie."
"I have to go home, Mr F," she says as she slips off the desk. "Let me have your cup and I'll wash them both up."
I watch her take the cups and disappear to the small kitchen at the back of the office. I put my hand on the desk where she has been sitting a few moments before. It's warm. Warm from the heat of her body.
I feel empty. Hollow. A shell. Something is missing in my life. I stare at my hand on the desk.
Suddenly I realise what's missing. It's the poinsettia. It's gone. When I left at lunchtime, it was on the corner of the desk. Where Julie was sitting. Perhaps she knocked it off, when she sat down. I get down on my knees and crawl around the desk.
Nothing. No sign of it. Not even any spilt earth. Just a plastic headed map pin which must have been dropped. I pick it up, almost absentmindedly.
"Where have you gone, Mr F?" I see Julie's legs from under the desk. She is only inches from me. I could reach her from here and kiss her calf. But even as I think the thought she bends down and looks at me from the far side of the desk. "It's gone," I say.
"What's gone, Mr F?"
"The poinsettia. It was on the desk before you sat down."
"Oh. I'm sorry Mr F. But I didn't sit on it, honestly. I threw it away after you had gone out at lunch time. I didn't think you would want it now it was broken. Did I do the wrong thing?"
"Broken? Oh, yes. I remember. No that's ok. No use to anyone a broken flower.....
.....Very dangerous things, poinsettias. Did you know that? Lot's of pygmies get killed by poinsettias you know. Just brushing past one is enough. They find them strangely attractive for some reason. I think it must be to do with pheromones. They’re always hanging round the sort of places that poinsettias grow, and then, just a momentary lapse of attention and the next thing they know they've woken up dead. You'd think they'd learn."
We head for the door. Julie turns off the lights as we go. I remember to turn over the sign on the door to read 'closed', and we walk round to the car park.
She blows me a kiss as she drives away.
I feel in my pocket for my car keys. I find the keys, but everything else is gone. My wallet isn't there! And then I remember. These aren't my trousers. My wallet must still be in my trousers.
That means I shall have to go back. I can live without the trousers. I can live without the money. I can even cancel the credit cards, but I put the little foil packet of euphorbia sap in my wallet that I collected from the broken poinsettia , and I shall need that soon.
I am still holding the map pin that I found on the floor in the office. I push it through the lapel of my jacket. I have thought of a use for that. I pat the pocket of the jacket to check that the cotton wool balls that I picked up when I left Carole's house are still there. I have a use for them too. But without the euphorbia sap, I'm stuck.
Listen. I hope you are still following all this carefully. The plot is building nicely now. There is real craftsmanship here, you know. Every word and every comma is placed with precision.
This may seem like disconnected ramblings to you, but hundreds of hours of painstaking research have gone into this. That map pin wasn't on the floor under my desk just by chance, you know. I dropped that there weeks ago in anticipation of this.
Look. I can't stand here all evening bantering with you about my literary style. I've got a wife to kill.
A wife.
I arrive home at the same time as Gail. She is locking her car as I pull in to the drive. She waits while I get out of mine.
"Good grief!" she says. "What on earth are you wearing? And what's happened to your other shoe?"
"Party," I reply.
"Party?"
"Me, too. How was yours?"
"How was my what?"
"I thought you said you'd been to a party."
"You're being deliberately obtuse, Tom. Where is your shoe?"
"Oh, that. I think it must have got lost at the party. Old Hudson's birthday you know. I thought I told you. It got a bit wild. Musical chairs, and things."
"And the trousers?"
"Uh... Oh we had a bit of a kick about. Five a side. Or maybe it was only three. Must've picked up the wrong ones by mistake. No problem. Sort it out in the morning."
"And Mr Hudson joined in this 'kick about' did he?"
"Yes. You know he's not a bad old stick when you get to know him, and he did like the flowers."
"Flowers?"
"Roses."
"Roses?"
"Why do you keep repeating everything I say?"
"You gave roses to Hudson?"
"Couldn't get carnations, and the poinsettia got broken." Even as I speak I realise that I am making a terrible mistake. I shouldn't have mentioned the poinsettia. I need to change the subject. My right foot is going numb ,too.
"Poinsettia? Did I say poinsettia? I meant freesias. Always get them confused for some reason. Nasty things poinsettias."
"Nasty? Why?"
I think she suspects something. Why does she keep going on about poinsettias? How could she know? I must change the subject. "Poisonous? I didn't know they were." Damn.
"Sometimes I don't understand a word you are saying," she says, and fumbles in her bag for the front door key. While we are standing there the telephone begins to ring in the house. Gail manages to undo the door and grab it before it stops.
"It's for you," she says, handing me the phone as I come through the door. "Someone called Mrs Carroll. Apparently she's found your wallet somewhere."
CHAPTER 11
"Good Evening, Tom Fletcher speaking. How may I help you?"
"Hello Tom. Aren't you going to say 'sorry' to me for running away like that?"
The sound of Carole's voice over the phone sends shivers down my spine. Gail is taking off her coat behind me. She hangs it on the hook and disappears towards the kitchen.
"Yes," I say loudly, projecting my voice in the general direction that Gail has taken. "This is Mr T. Fletcher. You do have the correct number."
"Why are you shouting at me, Tom? I can hear you perfectly well. I've got your trousers, Tom, and your shoe."
"You've found my wallet," I shout. "Why that's wonderful."
"Oh yes, I've got your wallet, too, Tom. So when are you coming to collect it? I'm free now, you know. Why don't you come round straight away? We could finish off the champagne. If you came now you could have it in ten minutes."
"Yes, there is a reward," I continue. Gail reappears from the kitchen. She frowns at me as she approaches.
"Why are you shouting?" she mouths as she passes.
"Deaf," I shout.
"Well if she wasn't when she rang, she soon will be," adds Gail as she goes into the sitting room.
"Tom!" Carole's voice explodes in my ear. "Stop shouting at me. I'm not deaf!"
"Not you," I add. "The cleaning woman. Deaf as a post she is."
/> "What cleaning woman? With you, now? At this time of night?"
"Yes. Yes. It was the cleaning woman that answered the phone when you rang. She prefers the late shift. Doesn't sleep well." I turn and call to the wall, "Don't sleep well, do you dear?"
"Did you call?" Gail's voice drifts back from the sitting room.
"No. Not you. Just calling to the cleaning woman."
"Sorry? Did you say cleaning woman?"
Carole's voice sounds in my ear again. "But if she's deaf, how could she answer the phone? Are you sure there isn't someone else there with you, Tom?"
"No. No. Quite alone," I say as nonchalently as I can. Please let it sound nonchalent for once.
"I heard you talking to someone," insists Carole. "Who were you talking to, Tom?"
"No one," I reply. "Just thinking out loud." I think she might not believe me. "If you could just clean behind the piano," I call, just to add some verisimilitude to my story.
"I'm sorry, Tom," calls Gail. "I can't hear you. If you are talking to me you'll have to speak up. What was that about a cleaning woman?"
"Oh, I just thought we might need one. The woman who found my wallet says she is a cleaning woman. Wanted to know if we needed any work done."
Carole again, "Tom, are you talking about me? I'm not a cleaning woman. Who are you talking to? I thought you said your cleaner was deaf."
I'm starting to get confused. Perhaps it would be easier if I handed the phone over to Gail and let her talk to Carole. For a moment I'm tempted, but somehow I have an inkling that it would complicate rather than simplify matters. Why don't I just put the receiver down?
"How did you get my number?" I ask down the phone.
"Easy, peasy, Tom. It was in your wallet."
"Actually I am interested in a cleaning woman." I nearly jump out of my skin. Gail has crept up behind me while I am talking, without me hearing her.
"God! You made me jump."
"How did I do that, Tom? I could do more than make you jump if you came round now," purrs the voice in my right ear.
"Ask her how much she charges," whispers Gail into the other ear.
I get a bad feeling about this, but I can't see a way out. "Uh....How much do you charge?" I ask.
"Oh there's no charge, Tom. Not for you. What sort of a woman do you think I am?"
"What did she say?" asks Gail.