coffee.’
‘Yes, why not,’ Samson said, but only to keep Bartek happy.
‘You can find women on the Internet too,’ said Bartek.
‘I know, but—’
‘No buts. You shouldn’t just always talk. And dream. You have to do something!’
‘There is one family . . .’ said Samson hesitantly. He did not want to draw Bartek deeper into his confidence, but he suddenly had the feeling that he should correct the impression that he had only been targeting women. Bartek seemed quite shocked, and he did not want to leave it like that. He did not want his only friend to see him as some kind of sex offender. ‘They live at the other end of my street. Right by the strip of green, opposite the golf course.’
‘OK. And what about them?’
‘He’s a business consultant. He helped Gavin once. She’s very attractive. And they have a charming daughter. She’s about twelve.’
Bartek was not looking any less perplexed than before. ‘Right, and what do you want with them ? Nab the yummy mummy?’
‘No, of course not. They are just so . . . so perfect, you know. A dream family. The family I’d like to have one day!’
Bartek was looking very uneasy now. ‘Samson, my impression is that you’ve lost touch with reality a bit. You dream about other people’s lives, but you don’t change your own at all. It seems like you’re fleeing something!’
And, thought Samson, don’t people need that sometimes? The chance to escape?
‘I’ll be OK,’ he said. Why had he started? He was sure that Bartek would latch on to the topic like a terrier and not let go.
‘Let me see if I can sort something out for you,’ said Bartek. ‘There must be a woman for you somewhere! You don’t look bad, you own a house . . . well, half a house . . . you’re not stupid and you have no disgusting characteristics. It would be a doddle if—’
‘Look, I’m jobless.’
‘All the more reason to start to really look for a job.’
‘I’m looking like mad.’ That was not true. He had not even signed on at the job centre. He knew that was a mistake. Things could not go on like this. Without benefits, his savings would soon dwindle. But as soon as he signed on, he would need to write heaps of applications and he would need to keep bringing proof that he was trying to find work. How was he to fit that in with his other activities? Many days he had thought to himself: tomorrow I’ll start to think about the future! Tomorrow I’ll sign on and then I’ll deal with the problem!
But he never had. His desire to continue to observe the people in whose lives he took such an interest – an interest so much more intense than he could ever admit to Bartek or anyone else – was simply too great. His life without this activity seemed pointless to him.
‘If you really work on it, you’ll find something,’ said Bartek optimistically. To Samson’s great relief, he then changed the subject and turned to his own plans for the future: his marriage arrangements, his wish to buy a property for himself and his soon-to-be wife, the difficulty of obtaining a mortgage, and, and, and . . . Samson let it all wash over him. He had not eaten since breakfast and his finances did not even allow him to order a burger, the cheapest item on the pub menu. But that did not matter. He felt a pleasant dizziness. Everything around him seemed somehow dulled, lacked sharp outlines, had a nice haziness: people’s voices, their laughter and chat, the clinking of glasses, the cold air that swept in when someone opened or shut the door, Bartek’s prattling on, everything.
He was thinking of Gillian Ward.
2
If only I could leave without anyone noticing, thought Gillian.
But of course she couldn’t. She could not go without Becky, and that did away with any chance of an unnoticed exit. The tennis club kids were running around the hall; Becky, in black leggings and a pink T-shirt, was one of the wildest of them. Impossible to extricate her. The parents, mainly mothers,
‘Yes, why not,’ Samson said, but only to keep Bartek happy.
‘You can find women on the Internet too,’ said Bartek.
‘I know, but—’
‘No buts. You shouldn’t just always talk. And dream. You have to do something!’
‘There is one family . . .’ said Samson hesitantly. He did not want to draw Bartek deeper into his confidence, but he suddenly had the feeling that he should correct the impression that he had only been targeting women. Bartek seemed quite shocked, and he did not want to leave it like that. He did not want his only friend to see him as some kind of sex offender. ‘They live at the other end of my street. Right by the strip of green, opposite the golf course.’
‘OK. And what about them?’
‘He’s a business consultant. He helped Gavin once. She’s very attractive. And they have a charming daughter. She’s about twelve.’
Bartek was not looking any less perplexed than before. ‘Right, and what do you want with them ? Nab the yummy mummy?’
‘No, of course not. They are just so . . . so perfect, you know. A dream family. The family I’d like to have one day!’
Bartek was looking very uneasy now. ‘Samson, my impression is that you’ve lost touch with reality a bit. You dream about other people’s lives, but you don’t change your own at all. It seems like you’re fleeing something!’
And, thought Samson, don’t people need that sometimes? The chance to escape?
‘I’ll be OK,’ he said. Why had he started? He was sure that Bartek would latch on to the topic like a terrier and not let go.
‘Let me see if I can sort something out for you,’ said Bartek. ‘There must be a woman for you somewhere! You don’t look bad, you own a house . . . well, half a house . . . you’re not stupid and you have no disgusting characteristics. It would be a doddle if—’
‘Look, I’m jobless.’
‘All the more reason to start to really look for a job.’
‘I’m looking like mad.’ That was not true. He had not even signed on at the job centre. He knew that was a mistake. Things could not go on like this. Without benefits, his savings would soon dwindle. But as soon as he signed on, he would need to write heaps of applications and he would need to keep bringing proof that he was trying to find work. How was he to fit that in with his other activities? Many days he had thought to himself: tomorrow I’ll start to think about the future! Tomorrow I’ll sign on and then I’ll deal with the problem!
But he never had. His desire to continue to observe the people in whose lives he took such an interest – an interest so much more intense than he could ever admit to Bartek or anyone else – was simply too great. His life without this activity seemed pointless to him.
‘If you really work on it, you’ll find something,’ said Bartek optimistically. To Samson’s great relief, he then changed the subject and turned to his own plans for the future: his marriage arrangements, his wish to buy a property for himself and his soon-to-be wife, the difficulty of obtaining a mortgage, and, and, and . . . Samson let it all wash over him. He had not eaten since breakfast and his finances did not even allow him to order a burger, the cheapest item on the pub menu. But that did not matter. He felt a pleasant dizziness. Everything around him seemed somehow dulled, lacked sharp outlines, had a nice haziness: people’s voices, their laughter and chat, the clinking of glasses, the cold air that swept in when someone opened or shut the door, Bartek’s prattling on, everything.
He was thinking of Gillian Ward.
2
If only I could leave without anyone noticing, thought Gillian.
But of course she couldn’t. She could not go without Becky, and that did away with any chance of an unnoticed exit. The tennis club kids were running around the hall; Becky, in black leggings and a pink T-shirt, was one of the wildest of them. Impossible to extricate her. The parents, mainly mothers,
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