Читать книгу A Hand in the Bush - Jane Clifton - Страница 10

Boyd Collins rattled around the rooms of 37 Wakelin Street, Yarraville, like a mis-hit pinball on limp flippers. 'There's nothing so sad as an empty house'-the words of the one-hit-wonder disco band Rose Royce rang in his ears each time he walked through the front door-'Love don't live here anymore!'

At 7.55 am he emerged from the shower and reached for the towel, which was still lying in a heap where he'd left it the day before. It smelt fungal.

He was improving, but bathroom awareness was still not his strong suit. Didn't fresh toilet rolls automatically appear on the holder? Along with new toothpaste in the drawer, and soap in the dish? Apparently not. Like bin-liners and clean underwear, someone used to take care of all that.

And she was gone.

Today was Thursday, 16 July: almost sixteen months, to the day, since his wife and child had left. Left him? Not officially; they'd just left. His son, Matt, turned eleven last May. His wife Ronnie-his dark and inscrutable Cleo-was she ever coming back?

He looked at himself in the mirror. The body was good. He had so much time on his hands these days he'd re-joined the gym where he bench-pressed eighty 'k' and ran off what little flab there had ever been. Those triceps were coming on a treat, if he said so himself.

'Bet that wimpy record producer guy you've got in tow doesn't look this good in the nip, baby,' he said to the mirror in sitcom Irish, as he smirked and shook his head, raising an eyebrow in self-parody. Then, remembering the photo of Garth Anton in last month's Who Weekly, he winced and looked away. Remembered those long-lashed eyes behind funky yellow shades, winking out at the camera from under a multi-coloured Tibetan beanie. Remembered the manicured hand clutching the olive suede Armani trenchcoat to his throat, his other arm slung around the shoulder of a radiant-looking Ronnie.

What this month's doyen of the British recording industry would look like 'in the nip' didn't bear thinking about.

Boyd forced his eyes back to the mirror while he shaved. A new haircut had finally seen off the last of the anachronistic rockabilly quiff, but there was no sign of thinning. A touch more grey than last year but, hell, he was forty-five already! The hair don't get no darker, nor the buttocks more tight. Lucky to still have an arse.

He slapped on some Lagerfeld aftershave and ripped the packaging from a professionally laundered shirt. Ice blue with a tiny white pinstripe, the blue matched his eyes which, in spite of the hour and yet another lonely bottle in front of the box the previous night, still radiated charm.

The phone rang as he finished buttoning his collar and knotting his tie. He made it to the kitchen just before the answering machine clicked in.

'Hello,' he said.

'Are you awake?' His mother-in-law, Faith Fermoy.

'Well, yeah, unless I'm talking in my sleep. What's up?'

'Up? Why should anything be up?'

'It's five past eight in the morning, Faith, to what do I owe the...'

'Nothing, really. I just wanted to see how you were.'

These check-up calls were becoming more frequent.

'So, have you heard from Veronica?' she said. 'At all?'

'Not since Matt's birthday.'

'Two months ago!'

'Correct. I told you that the last time you called.'

'Are you worried?'

'About what?'

'Because I don't want you to worry.'

'Good.'

'Or to give up hope.'

Longer pause. 'Good.'

'She will be back. Soon. So you mustn't give up hope.'

'Got it.' He tucked the phone into his shoulder and filled the kettle. 'So, have you heard from her?' he continued, playing along.

'Oh, yes! She rings me every week. Or I ring her.'

'Oh. Good.'

'Oh, yes, she's very well. Having a marvellous time. Oh, I'm sorry dear, I didn't mean it to sound like that. I just meant...Well, work is going very well. That last shawl she made for Madonna has really put her on the map. Everybody's talking about it.'

'Well, good for her.' He cut two slices of rye bread and put them in the toaster. 'Mattie still hating his new school? Last time we spoke he was talking about running away.'

'Oh, you know what children are like. Always manipulating, always milking the situation. He'll be fine. Travel is the best education a child can have.'

'Yes, but if he only sees his mother once a week...'

'His soccer is coming on very well,' she cut in.

'Listen, Faith, I'm going to have to run. I've got a client at 9.15.'

'Oh, I don't want to hold you up, dear.'

Boyd swapped the phone to his other shoulder and poured boiling water into the teapot.

'As I said, I just wanted to see how you were. And to tell you not to worry. Veronica is going through...a phase. You'll have to be patient for a little while longer so don't get any silly ideas.'

'Like what?'

'Oh, I don't know. You know how people get, when their marriage is going through...a phase?'

'No.'

'Well they get all kinds of crazy ideas, don't they? "It's over", for example, or "she doesn't want me anymore" or "it's time I looked for someone else"-those kinds of ideas.'

'Right.' He stood with the butter knife poised in mid-air and stared into space. 'Those kind of ideas.'

'And I don't want you to think like that.'

'Right. I'll do my best.'

'Do you promise?'

'Cross my heart and spit to die, stick a needle in my eye.'

'Boyd!'

'It's what Mattie always says.'

'Right. Okay. Well, I'd better let you go.'

'Yes. You'd better.'

'Bye-zee-bye!'

'Bye, Faith.'

He sat on a stool at the bench and stirred his tea. Did Faith know more than he did? Was the Garth Anton thing with Ronnie more significant than he'd thought? Or the opposite? Was she, in fact, due home at any tick of the clock? Trust Faith to throw a spanner in the works now, when he was about to take his first tentative steps outside the relationship waiting room.

There was no way she could know of his impending blind date, was there? With Faith, you could never be sure.