Close Relations Read online

  Kaatya went upstairs. He heard her call: ‘Dirk, get out of that bath!’

  Stephen tried to concentrate but he kept reading the same sentence over again. Pieter, his older son, came in from the other room, where he had been working at Stephen’s computer.

  ‘She seems in a tizz.’

  Stephen ruffled his son’s hair. ‘Women.’

  Living with Kaatya was like living with Mount Etna; one never knew when she was going to erupt. Even when dormant, she smouldered. This bonded Stephen with his sons.

  Pieter, carrying his books, went upstairs. Though he was thirteen he already seemed like a little old man. Stephen’s sons were quaint, formal boys. They had a wary look to them. Sometimes their mother shouted at them. Sometimes she flung her arms around them and smothered them with kisses. How could a chap know where he stood?

  The trouble was, they could be wary with him too. Though sometimes united, blokes together, by Kaatya’s moods, they could also be alienated. Kaatya lived by no discernible moral code. She had no compunction about corralling her sons when she was quarrelling with Stephen. ‘How can he treat me this bloody way?’ she would wail, clutching her sons under her wing. ‘How can he be so cruel, your own father?’ She pressed their heads against her. They stood there, three black heads, foreign people with their foreign names, and he felt like a visitor in his own home.

  Stephen tried to read the sentence again. His eyes wandered. Did she suspect something? Over the past months he had often wondered this. He had been careful – no whispered phone calls from home, no incriminating evidence in his jacket pockets. He had only stayed overnight with Prudence six times during the past summer, each occasion prepared for with a watertight alibi.

  He just felt that it showed. Like all men in love, he believed it must be as glaringly obvious to others as it was to him. That was love’s transforming magic; that was what the poets wrote about. Prudence was in his heart and in his bloodstream. Even Playing with Fire, the manuscript she had given him to read, sat in his briefcase like a bomb. Kaatya was a wilful, self-absorbed woman but she wasn’t stupid. Besides, she was experienced in sexual matters – far more experienced than he was. Before they met she had had scores of lovers back in Amsterdam. She, too, when she was twenty, had had an affair with a married man. It seemed inconceivable that she couldn’t guess what was happening. But if that was the case, he would know. Kaatya wasn’t the sort of person to keep things bottled up. She plunged straight in and never mind who heard the ensuing row – her sons, fellow shoppers in the supermarket checkout. There was a fine carelessness about Kaatya. In fourteen years of living with her he had grown used to public showdowns. Used to them, but still cringingly embarrassed.

  Stephen went upstairs to say goodnight to his sons. Pieter lay in bed, holding up his book so he could read it in the light. Thick black hair sprouted from his armpits. Stephen stared. His own son was reaching puberty! He knew this, of course – Pieter’s voice seemed to have broken overnight – but the hair gave him a jolt. How fast the years had passed! Soon he would be a grandfather with his life behind him.

  Stephen went downstairs and opened the back door. He breathed deeply. Outside, the leaves were falling; the scent of autumn was in the air. Across the gardens the church clock struck ten. It was a Thursday evening in September, just another evening in a leafy London suburb. As Stephen stood there, however, he felt as light as a husk, drifting towards death. Prudence, too, would one day die. Separated by five miles of slumbering streets they were voyaging alone when they should have been clinging together. How could either of them bear it?

  He longed to jump in the car and drive to Titchmere Road. He would let himself into her flat – how neat and cosy after the chaos of his own home, with its broken dishwasher and scattered homework. Prudence would welcome him into her arms. He would bury himself in her and be safe. Like a child, he would shut out the terrors of the night. Sometimes he imagined this so vividly that it astonished him to find he was still in his own home. Surely it must show on his face.

  Stephen poured himself a whisky – his third but what the hell. The problem was, he couldn’t bear to hurt anybody. He loved his sons. When he thought of leaving Kaatya he felt a physical pain in his chest. How could he break up his family? He had never really been unfaithful before – just a couple of drunken incidents, hastily regretted, at sales conferences. His relationship with Prudence was different. He loved her. He loved her intelligence and clarity. He loved her grey eyes and her big feet and her scent of Floris carnations. He loved the way she served him tea in delicate china cups. He loved the way she was utterly unlike Kaatya. She was English, she understood what he was talking about. They could talk for hours – about work, about books, about everything. She released words in his head. Kaatya was artistic; she lived on her impulses, like an animal. Prudence was a thinker. Not exactly an intellectual: a thinker. He loved her brain as much as her body.

  Kaatya came downstairs. Stephen started, guiltily, and turned the page of his manuscript. Kaatya had showered; she wore his towelling robe. She squatted beside him, slid her hand under the pile of paper and massaged his balls.

  ‘You come to bed?’ she asked. She was jealous of his work. Words, meaningless words, they took him away from her. ‘You staying here, sweetie?’

  Stephen put the manuscript on the floor. He nuzzled her neck. She smelt of sandalwood. She liked rubbing herself with exotic oils. ‘No, I’ll come with you.’

  He got to his feet, swaying slightly. One too many scotches. She took his hand and slipped it inside her robe. She moved his finger to and fro over her nipple. Kaatya was a woman of strong sexual appetites. As time went by they seemed to increase, rather than diminish.

  Stephen cupped her breast in his traitor’s hand. Then he withdrew it. ‘I’ll lock up,’ he said.

  Across Britain the wind blew. Rain lashed the windows of bedrooms where couples slept, clasped together. Autumn was approaching; there was the scent of mortality in the air. Men and women gripped each other, flesh against flesh, seeking the comfort of a living creature. Their dreams spiralled away like the leaves blowing above the roof-tops, but their bodies lay locked together.

  Louise lay next to her sleeping husband. She was still dressed in her suspender belt and stockings. The clasp dug into her skin. Outside, the rain flung itself at the window as if someone were throwing gravel. Easing herself from under Robert’s arm she sat up. She slid open the little tabs, rolled down her stockings and unhitched the suspender belt. Robert liked her to dress up for bed, to truss herself up like a turkey in the corsets he bought her. It took an age to get these garments on, hopping about on one leg in the bathroom, twisting round to fasten all the tiny little hooks down the back. The worse thing was when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her limbs ached from gardening, her nails were dirty, but she still performed her dogged preparations for him because it gave him pleasure. Robert was a sensualist, a sexual epicure. In the lamplight he would sit on the bed, waiting for her. When she emerged from the bathroom, naked except for corset, stockings and high heels, he would look at her body as if it were disconnected from her altogether. Sometimes she felt aroused by this. Sometimes she just felt silly, a middle-aged mother shielding her stretch-marks with her hand.

  Despite these erotic aids there were certain routines to their lovemaking. After all, they had been married for twenty years. There were various positions which suited them, various touches which aroused them. That was why Louise felt uneasy. She pulled on her nightshirt. She slid back into bed and gazed into the darkness. Recently Robert had introduced something new into their repertoire. It wasn’t gymnastic – some technique he had seen in one of his magazines – it was more subtle than that, more pleasurable, in fact. He turned her on her stomach, lay on top of her and, whilst caressing her between her legs, breathed into her ear. He whispered, he licked, he breathed – pleasure shot like quicksilver through her body. It was as if, through the secret whorls of her ear, he tickled her ve
ry bloodstream.

  Where had Robert learned this? He had never done it before. Louise lay beside him and gazed into the darkness.

  Imogen lay in bed, listening to the rain. Around her head rolled the words, spoken in that Buckinghamshire lilt . . . We’re just animals, animals with clothes on . . . Karl straightened up and grinned at her – white teeth, tanned face, curly black hair. She had rerun this moment so many times during the past fortnight, her own tender video replay. He stood there, stocky and virile. His hand ran over the horse’s flank, stroking her coat, calming her . . . such strong hands, their palms callused and cracked . . . She closed her eyes. The hands ran over her body, calming her as she lay quivering beneath them . . . he pulled her down, into the straw . . .

  Did he really want to take her to the badger’s sett or was he only saying it? He thought she was just a kid, a spoiled rich kid. She lay there. She ran her hand over her body, the way he would do it. He had grinned at her as if it was just the two of them, alone in the world. As she lay there, listening to the rain, she remembered a joke they had giggled over in primary school. Her name was Virginia. Virgin for short, but not for long . . . How babyish they had been. Surely Karl could see that she was grown-up now. She had grown up for him.

  Thirty miles away, in Purley, the houses were dark. Sealed into their homes, the residents slept. People went to bed early in Ravenswood Close. Out in the street only the cars were awake, the red lights pulsing on their dashboards, for this was a neighbourhood that lived in fear of intruders. Dorothy turned, in her sleep, and slipped her arm around her husband’s chest. Beneath his pyjamas his heart pulsed . . . tick tock, tick-tick tock . . . the bump of its beat was irregular. Dorothy, however, slept on, oblivious to the delayed detonation beneath his ribcage.

  Outside in the shrubbery there was the scent of decay. Tick tock, tick tock . . . downstairs the clock ticked, out of synch with her husband’s heartbeat. Downstairs the alarm was set, the doors bolted. But no Neighbourhood Watch could keep one intruder out of their home. The countdown could be measured in heartbeats. The thief waited, weeks away, waiting for the moment when it would glide in through their walls and change their lives for ever.

  Four

  PRUDENCE WAS SITTING in her office correcting a manuscript. She was alone. Last night’s storm had scattered twigs over the pavement. The awning over the occult bookshop was skewed. Prudence, too, was feeling mutinous. She scored a red line through a paragraph and wrote pretentious in the margin.

  There was a tap at the door. Stephen came in. He smiled at her and dumped a folder on her desk. It was Playing with Fire.

  ‘I finished it this morning. You’re right.’

  ‘Extraordinary, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is that what women do together?’

  ‘I prefer men,’ said Prudence. ‘When I get the chance.’

  He sat down. ‘I’m sorry. Dirk’s got tonsillitis.’

  ‘Your son’s always getting tonsillitis. It’s your fault for having him born under water.’

  ‘That was Kaatya’s idea.’

  ‘Everything’s Kaatya’s idea,’ said Prudence irritably. ‘Haven’t you got a mind of your own?’

  ‘She was the one giving birth.’

  ‘Must be because she’s Dutch. All those canals.’

  Trish came in. Stephen said hastily: ‘Talking about dykes – think we should publish this? Has Liz read it?’

  Prudence nodded. ‘She thinks it’s great.’

  Trish asked what it was.

  ‘The novel the gardening woman gave to me,’ said Prudence. ‘Erin Fox.’

  Trish picked it up. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Sort of post-feminist lesbian pornography,’ said Stephen.

  ‘An inter-racial Sapphic soap opera,’ said Prudence. ‘Rather extraordinary.’ She had read its 550 pages in three sittings, it was compulsive stuff. Rough and ready, that was to be expected, but with a confidence in its own voice one rarely encountered in a first novel. There was an epic sweep to its story, which ranged from London to Paris to Bombay and back. ‘And, er, a highly erotic use of language.’

  Stephen laughed. ‘It certainly puts the lingo into cunnilingus. And, in addition, it would make a handy bedside table.’

  ‘Sounds brilliant,’ said Trish. She picked up her coat. ‘Can I take it to lunch?’ She took the manuscript and left. There was a silence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Prudence.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I feel so guilty.’

  ‘I feel so guilty –’

  He stopped. Trish rushed in. She collected her handbag and rushed out again. Prudence pushed her hand through her hair.

  ‘Listen, Steve,’ she said. ‘All my life I’ve tried to be a nice person . . . I wasn’t jealous of Louise. I worked hard and pleased my parents. I tried to save the rhino and remember people’s birthdays . . .’ She paused. ‘And now, know what I feel like? A murderess. I sit at home, willing the break-up of a happy family with two boys who’ve never done any harm to me and who love their father –’

  ‘We’re not a happy family. Kaatya and I –’

  ‘Shut up! She’s got you, hasn’t she? She lives with you. You and me, we have this half-life, this non-life, two hours here, two hours there, snatched moments, creeping in and out!’ Her voice rose. ‘Nobody can see you, I’ve known you over a year and you don’t know anything about my life, you haven’t even met my sisters!’

  ‘I did, once –’

  ‘Oh yes – Louise saw you from her car.’

  ‘I want to meet them.’

  Prudence paused, panting. She should be offering him happiness, not guilt and blame. If she went on like this their love would drain away and they would be left with nothing.

  ‘All right.’ She raised her head and looked at him. ‘Now Maddy’s back, I’ll ask her to dinner. I’ll ask this Fox woman, to celebrate her novel. I’ll cook a meal. Just once, we’ll have a real evening, like real people. Can you manage that?’

  Stephen nodded. He hung his head like a boy, hauled up in front of a headmistress. Then he raised his eyebrows and smiled at her, wheedlingly, from under his sandy fringe. Today, however, she was in no mood to be charmed. She disliked him as much as she disliked herself.

  Her phone rang. He lifted her hand, kissed it, and left the room.

  ‘Tuesday,’ said Prudence. ‘Can you come?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Maddy.

  ‘It’ll just be him . . .’ She felt shy, saying him. ‘Him, and the woman whose novel we’re buying.’ She gazed into the flames of the fire, searching for the right words. ‘The thing is, he can only get away for four hours.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So – can you, sort of leave quite early? If you see what I mean?’

  ‘Why?’ Maddy paused. Then she said: ‘Oh. Okay.’

  ‘And be discreet. Please! In front of this Fox woman.’

  Prudence put down the phone. She gazed at the flames of her gas-effect fire. Eternal flames, like eternal love. The thing was, could they be trusted? People flung rubbish onto these coals – tissues, cigarette ends – and nothing happened. These objects were never consumed by the flames; they just lay there. Was this the impermeability of love, its stubborn resistance to whatever rubbish you flung at it? Or was it just a sham – a fire that looked like a fire but was no such thing? There was something eerie about the flames, something denatured. Like Stephen and herself they sprung into life for a few hours here, a few hours there. There was no smouldering, messy normality to them.

  Prudence yawned and got up. She turned off the gas tap. There was a soft phut and the flames disappeared.

  Maddy was immune to charming men. Prudence had good reason to be nervous about introducing her sister to Stephen. Maddy was a direct woman; she saw through any attempt at gallantry or flirtation – in fact, she never noticed them in the first place. This in turn led to Maddy being considered charmless. She wasn’t; she just didn’t play the game. The sparring between the sexes d
idn’t interest her; she didn’t have time for stuff like that.

  In the past this had led to trouble. On the few occasions that Prudence had introduced Maddy to her boyfriends her loyalties had been divided. On the one hand she was irritated with her sister – why couldn’t she wear some make-up, why hadn’t she made an effort? She felt irritated when Maddy looked restless and then suddenly told the assembled company about genocide in Ruanda. Yet she admired her sister for caring about the world, for being so uncompromising. The man in question suddenly looked unattractively belligerent; couldn’t he make an effort, for Prudence’s sake? Prudence would squirm with embarrassment, feeling trivial for wishing Maddy wouldn’t sit there with her legs planted apart. And then she would think: if Maddy is so caring, why can’t she care about me? If I were a starving Bangladeshi she would help me. I’m her sister; I love her more than a Bangladeshi would. So why can’t she adapt, just a tiny bit, to please me?

  She remembered a particularly spiky evening with a man she had liked. During dinner Maddy had launched into the scandal of child prostitution in Bangkok. ‘They’re kept in pens,’ she had said, ‘and continuously raped from the age of eleven.’ This had effectively sabotaged any hope of sexual activity later on in the evening. In fact, it had effectively sabotaged the relationship, for after Maddy had left she and the man had had a row about immigration controls and she had never seen him again. The next day she had rung her sister; who hadn’t realised anything was wrong.

  ‘Don’t you ever suffer from compassion fatigue?’ Prudence had asked. ‘Like metal fatigue in cars?’

  ‘How could I?’ Maddy had replied. ‘With the world the way it is.’

  The problem was Maddy was a wonderful woman. She was generous, truthful and loyal. She cared deeply about things that most people chose to ignore. Prudence loved her. But she also loved Stephen. Contemplating Tuesday evening she felt exhausted before it had even begun.

  Maddy, meanwhile, was trying to find a job. The trouble was she didn’t know what to do. She had been lent the flat, rentfree, for a couple of months. Its owner, a paediatrician, was away in Romania working in an orphanage. When she returned Maddy would have to find somewhere to live. Before that happened, she had to find some work.