then going to sleep, turning down
the second cup of coffee, eating the right amount of salad. Not that she is
fussy or prim: the sofa cushions were not overly arranged, breakfast had been
left unwashed-up and even the duvet in the bedroom was not pulled tight but
rolled back. Jeremy did not deserve her.
I had
the awards, the wigs and the golf clubs but there was a problem with the suits.
In the wardrobe were only Susan’s clothes, sensible clothes, nothing too
expensive, no men’s shoes in their shoe rack, but on the floor several empty coathangers
and some shards of linen and bits of thread. It looked as if Susan had been at
his stuff with the pinking shears. There was one tie which had been snipped in
two. The suits, no doubt, were already in pieces in black bin liners like the
chopped-up remains of murder victims. Now I felt like the secret prowler in
Neil James’s unwritten masterpiece. A chubby little bad-luck elf silently
prowling through this woman’s house to change the course of events, as if Neil
were my alter ego, as if he were writing my life.
The
Planters’ wardrobe light was on the blink; it flickered and died. I looked up
and saw that its junction box was hanging loose, not from Susan’s attack on
Jeremy’s garments. It had obviously been like that for some time, the plastic
around the terminals had melted and browned. Shoddy work. I followed the badly
stapled cable back to the skirting by the door. Whoever had done this loft
conversion was a cowboy. I tried the bedside light and the main light switch.
It was warm, even after the couple of minutes I’d been there. Dreadful job. The
landing was no better. No doubt the electrician had overcharged as well because
of Jeremy being on the telly.
I have
to be careful when it comes to wiring. No one, not even Liz, really knows about
me and wiring. It’s something I had to walk away from, something about growing
up, being a man if you like, getting away from my father, proving myself.
You
see, I actually have no qualifications to be in show-business at all, no right
to be here. I wasn’t born into it, I didn’t do media studies, I didn’t even
work my way up in it, I was a spark really, just a lonely little crappy spark.
You can’t have people in this business getting to know that and continue to
wear the Armani suit. Not that I go for Armani; Hugo Boss does for me. I did
have a stint working in a rep theatre once, and even went on stage a couple of
times. It’s OK to be a failed actor-agent, the biz is replete with them. It’s
not so good to be a failed electrician-agent. It’s not lovely, it’s not stylish.
The ‘teccies’ don’t come to our parties, they lead their own lives and have
their own lunch, usually in the pub while we all scoff the location catering on
the bus. The ‘teccies’ eat big breakfasts with black pudding and bacon while we
have orange juice and script meetings. I have buried it, it’s gone.
But the
house was empty, so I traced the cable back to the consumer unit and checked
the main fuse box. The wiring was a joke and probably dangerous. The under-sink
cables in the bathroom had not been properly earthed and there was virtually no
sheathing around any of the cabling where the plasterboard flushed against the
joists in the cellar. It denigrated the whole place.
There
was a sadness in the quiet air. It came off the curtains like a dog kept indoors
all day. There had obviously been crying here but no evidence of rows and
tantrums like in Liz’s and my home. No taped-up windows or kicked-in cupboard
doors. No dents from thrown objects on the wall plaster. No scuff marks, no
scuffles. Just a kind of suffering peace. On the coffee table were the five
packs of cards with which we had all played Racing Demons last time I was here,
ten-year-old Dave going apoplectic at the concessions being made for his
younger sister, Polly.
Downstairs
the fridge thermostat turned itself on with a gurgling noise like the low-key
chant of a
the second cup of coffee, eating the right amount of salad. Not that she is
fussy or prim: the sofa cushions were not overly arranged, breakfast had been
left unwashed-up and even the duvet in the bedroom was not pulled tight but
rolled back. Jeremy did not deserve her.
I had
the awards, the wigs and the golf clubs but there was a problem with the suits.
In the wardrobe were only Susan’s clothes, sensible clothes, nothing too
expensive, no men’s shoes in their shoe rack, but on the floor several empty coathangers
and some shards of linen and bits of thread. It looked as if Susan had been at
his stuff with the pinking shears. There was one tie which had been snipped in
two. The suits, no doubt, were already in pieces in black bin liners like the
chopped-up remains of murder victims. Now I felt like the secret prowler in
Neil James’s unwritten masterpiece. A chubby little bad-luck elf silently
prowling through this woman’s house to change the course of events, as if Neil
were my alter ego, as if he were writing my life.
The
Planters’ wardrobe light was on the blink; it flickered and died. I looked up
and saw that its junction box was hanging loose, not from Susan’s attack on
Jeremy’s garments. It had obviously been like that for some time, the plastic
around the terminals had melted and browned. Shoddy work. I followed the badly
stapled cable back to the skirting by the door. Whoever had done this loft
conversion was a cowboy. I tried the bedside light and the main light switch.
It was warm, even after the couple of minutes I’d been there. Dreadful job. The
landing was no better. No doubt the electrician had overcharged as well because
of Jeremy being on the telly.
I have
to be careful when it comes to wiring. No one, not even Liz, really knows about
me and wiring. It’s something I had to walk away from, something about growing
up, being a man if you like, getting away from my father, proving myself.
You
see, I actually have no qualifications to be in show-business at all, no right
to be here. I wasn’t born into it, I didn’t do media studies, I didn’t even
work my way up in it, I was a spark really, just a lonely little crappy spark.
You can’t have people in this business getting to know that and continue to
wear the Armani suit. Not that I go for Armani; Hugo Boss does for me. I did
have a stint working in a rep theatre once, and even went on stage a couple of
times. It’s OK to be a failed actor-agent, the biz is replete with them. It’s
not so good to be a failed electrician-agent. It’s not lovely, it’s not stylish.
The ‘teccies’ don’t come to our parties, they lead their own lives and have
their own lunch, usually in the pub while we all scoff the location catering on
the bus. The ‘teccies’ eat big breakfasts with black pudding and bacon while we
have orange juice and script meetings. I have buried it, it’s gone.
But the
house was empty, so I traced the cable back to the consumer unit and checked
the main fuse box. The wiring was a joke and probably dangerous. The under-sink
cables in the bathroom had not been properly earthed and there was virtually no
sheathing around any of the cabling where the plasterboard flushed against the
joists in the cellar. It denigrated the whole place.
There
was a sadness in the quiet air. It came off the curtains like a dog kept indoors
all day. There had obviously been crying here but no evidence of rows and
tantrums like in Liz’s and my home. No taped-up windows or kicked-in cupboard
doors. No dents from thrown objects on the wall plaster. No scuff marks, no
scuffles. Just a kind of suffering peace. On the coffee table were the five
packs of cards with which we had all played Racing Demons last time I was here,
ten-year-old Dave going apoplectic at the concessions being made for his
younger sister, Polly.
Downstairs
the fridge thermostat turned itself on with a gurgling noise like the low-key
chant of a
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