Oh I Do Like to Be... Read online

  ‘Do you want wine?’ said Thandie from the kitchen. ‘I know I could do with some.’

  Since when did these places serve wine? Maybe this Thandie was an alcoholic – that would certainly explain a lot. Still, Billy had never been one for examining the mouths of gift horses. ‘That would be great,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  Near the French doors, there was a stylish wooden rocking chair with a low table beside it, this one tottering with books – exactly the kind of chair that Billy would love to sit in and read. He glanced towards the kitchen door, but there was no sign of Thandie returning.

  ‘Mind if I sit?’ he said.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Thandie in that peculiar tone again.

  Billy lowered himself into the rocking chair and leaned back. It was the perfect height for him, with just the right amount of give. He reached over and took the top book off the pile on the table. It was a play, called If You Say So, by one William Evans. He turned it over to read the back cover, shrieked and dropped the book.

  Thandie rushed in from the kitchen, brandishing a wooden spatula. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I …’ Billy picked up the book and clapped his hand down over the photo on the back. ‘I thought I saw a mouse.’

  ‘Oh, God, yes, you probably did. I do keep saying we should get a cat. Close the patio doors if you like. Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack. I’ll just be a minute.’

  Thandie headed back into the kitchen. Billy peeled his hand off the back of the book and looked down at what was quite clearly a photograph of himself, sitting in this very chair in this very room, a room that he had never been in before today. Trembling, Billy got up and went over and examined the bookshelves. He found a whole shelf of plays and poetry by William Evans and, when he pulled out a couple, they had the same photograph on the back, the photo of him. Time seemed simultaneously to slow down and speed up. He lurched over to the piano and scanned the photos until he found what he was looking for. He picked it up: a silver-framed portrait of Thandie in a wedding dress, a veil pushed back over her long, dark hair. She was laughing, and her eyes were filled with love as she gazed over at the man on her arm, who was, of course, himself. Or rather, William Evans. Another himself. Another Shakespeare.

  Thandie came in carrying two glasses of wine, saying, ‘I thought I’d open that bottle your father gave us.’ Father? His mother had always said that she hadn’t needed a man; all she’d needed was a womb, a laboratory and one of Shakespeare’s wisdom teeth. And now he had a father? Who was he? An ex-husband? Another scientist? A clone of William Shakespeare’s actual dad? Argh, he hated the word ‘clone’!

  ‘Why are you looking at that?’ said Thandie.

  Billy looked down at the wedding photograph in his hand, at the happy Thandie there.

  ‘You look so beautiful,’ he said.

  The real Thandie’s face hardened. She slammed the glasses down on the dining table. Some wine sloshed over the side of one of them. ‘I’ll get the chicken,’ she said.

  ‘Chicken, right,’ said Billy. I need to get out of here immediately, he thought.

  He tossed the photograph onto the piano and made a move for the door. Thandie came back in with a roast chicken studded with rosemary, on a bed of onions and whole roasted garlic cloves.

  Well, thought Billy, maybe not quite immediately.

  Thandie returned to the kitchen and emerged with a dish of crispy roast potatoes and carrots, and a steaming bowl of gravy. The smell of the food made Billy’s mouth water. He could barely remember the last meal he’d eaten that hadn’t come in a bun. He thought of Sally with her £20 in the pub and hoped that she was getting something just as delicious, though it was hard to imagine that she could.

  Thandie looked at him and he looked at Thandie and Thandie looked at the chicken and he looked at the chicken and then he realised that Thandie was expecting him to carve. He’d never carved a chicken in his life. He wondered how much of it he could eat while still staying polite. Half the chicken had to be fine, surely. He picked up the carving knife and the long matching fork and started hacking pieces off the bird as best he could. Thandie watched for a while.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Billy. Thandie seemed to require a further explanation. ‘I’m just nervous,’ he said.

  Which was true enough. Thandie shrugged and began serving the vegetables. Billy experienced a small amount of relief in a situation that was far from relieving. Maybe he’d be able to busk his way through this. He’d gone to drama school in London, because it had seemed like the kind of thing a modern-day Shakespeare would do, and then he’d dropped out after a year to try to write, which he also told himself was appropriately Shakespearean. The truth was that he wasn’t an especially good actor, but he had learned to improvise under pressure, which he hoped would keep him in good stead here. He put some mangled pieces of chicken on both plates and then poured the gravy, which looked so thick and rich that it was all he could do not to drink it straight out of the bowl.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Thandie, holding up her wine glass. Yes. Drinking wine was better than drinking gravy.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Billy.

  They clinked glasses and drank, Billy a large mouthful, hoping for anaesthesia. He got something even better than that. He gasped.

  ‘This wine is amazing!’ he said.

  ‘Well, you know your dad,’ said Thandie inaccurately.

  Billy began to eat, trying not to gobble. Thandie was right, the chicken was a bit dry – Billy suspected that she could have taken it out of the oven on time, but had left it in to punish him, or rather William Evans, for having been so late. Thanks a lot, William, he thought. It was still the best thing that he’d eaten in – well – years. Imagine if this was his life! His house, his wife, his shelf of published work. William Evans was the luckiest man alive. Maybe I should kill him and take his place, he thought suddenly, but no, unfortunately, he wasn’t that kind of man. He just needed to eat and go. And maybe take Thandie upstairs for a good seeing to after the meal. William Evans could hardly complain, he should be grateful that he wasn’t going to get murdered.

  He realised that Thandie was just sitting there, watching him stuffing himself, and made an effort to slow down. He smiled at her as he chewed, attempting to show his appreciation. My God, she was gorgeous.

  Thandie ate a tiny morsel of her chicken, then put her knife and fork down. Great, thought Billy, if she’s not going to eat, maybe I can have the whole thing!

  ‘Bill,’ she said. ‘We need to talk.’

  Oh, no. No, no. These conversations were bad enough when they were about him. He certainly didn’t need to take one for the William Evans team. He glanced towards the French doors, the door to the hallway. Maybe he could make a run for it.

  On the other hand, the chicken.

  On the other, other hand, Thandie’s face.

  ‘We need to have a serious conversation about this marriage,’ said Thandie.

  And here we go.

  Billy had just taken a huge bite of chicken, so Thandie had to wait for quite some time while he made his way through it.

  ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more. Just not right now.’

  ‘If we’re not going to talk about it now, when are we going to talk about it?’

  ‘Literally any other time would be better for me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it would be. If it were up to you we’d never talk about it at all. I mean, just look at today! You turn up late, you disrespect my cooking—’

  ‘I definitely do not disrespect your cooking.’

  ‘—hacking into it like you’re cutting down a tree, you refuse to engage with me when I’m trying to talk to you about something really important—’

  ‘Could you pass the carrots?’

  ‘I’m doing all the work here, and you’re giving me nothing.’

  ‘And …’ he said. ‘The gravy?’

  ‘This marriage is dead, Bill.’

  The statement landed on the table with a thud. Billy tried to make the face of a person whose marriage was dead and not of someone who had just met this woman fifteen minutes previously and who was starting to ask himself what would happen when her real husband turned up.

  ‘Don’t you have anything to say about that?’

  ‘Well, obviously, I’m very sad that the marriage is dead,’ said Billy. From Thandie’s expression, this wasn’t good enough. ‘I’m heartbroken. Devastated.’ What he would give for a thesaurus. ‘Inconsolable?’

  ‘Stop being facetious.’

  ‘I’m not. I really mean it. Let’s give things another try. There’s really no need for us to discuss this any further.’

  ‘I don’t know why I expected more from you,’ said Thandie. ‘You’ve never put the slightest bit of effort into our relationship. I mean, I knew from the start that your work was always going to come first – you were very clear about that, and I accepted it – but it’s just got worse and worse. Lately it seems like even when you’re here, you’re not here.’

  Thandie sounded so sorrowful that Billy found himself starting to feel guilty, even though it had nothing to do with him.

  ‘We live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, but I don’t feel like we’re sharing our lives,’ Thandie went on. ‘You don’t take any interest in me, you don’t show me any affection. Our sex life is basically zero.’

  Billy looked up sharply from his plate. If William Evans wasn’t giving her any (more fool him), he knew someone who would.

  ‘It’s wearing me down,’ Thandie continued. ‘I’m not myself any more. I feel so old – I’m not old, Bill! We used to talk about having a baby, I can’t even imagine that happening any more. And … I
feel like – lately I sense that – don’t deny it …’

  Billy felt a rising sense of panic as he guessed where this was heading.

  ‘I think you’ve been seeing someone else,’ Thandie said finally. ‘I don’t have any proof, I haven’t been snooping or anything, it’s just – I can’t think of any other explanation for how you’ve been behaving.’

  Just as he’d expected. What an arsehole William Evans was! Billy had no idea what to say. He was hardly going to defend the guy. Plus he was acutely aware that his chicken was getting cold.

  ‘I know it’s partly my fault,’ Thandie said. ‘I know there hasn’t been much to attract you lately – but I get so exhausted by trying and failing to get your attention – and then I’ve got nothing left to offer – and so you go elsewhere – it’s a vicious circle …’

  Billy was outraged on Thandie’s behalf. She had more than enough to offer, from where he was sitting. How could she take it all on herself when this shit William Evans was clearly entirely to blame? Ungrateful sod! He slammed his fist down on the table. Thandie jumped.

  ‘This is appalling!’ he cried. ‘I have treated you dreadfully! It’s all my fault – don’t you dare say otherwise. Nobody should have to put up with the way I’ve behaved, especially you. You’ve been such a wonderful wife to me – patient, loving, understanding, super-hot and great in the sack – the very idea that I would cheat on you – it’s reprehensible! I’m a dog! I don’t deserve you, Thandie, and I would give all my plays and books of poems and other published works to have you love me again.’

  Billy meant every word of this – albeit on behalf of that animal, William Evans – but he wondered whether maybe he had laid it on a bit thick, because Thandie had a look of shock on her face, perhaps even disbelief. He quickly ate a little bit more of his chicken.

  ‘Also,’ he added, ‘you’re an amazing cook. Really.’

  Thandie began to smile, but at that moment her phone, lying on the table beside her, rang. Thank you, God! thought Billy. Maybe this awful conversation could now come to an end.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said, ‘take it, it might be important.’

  Thandie looked at the display. Her face went white.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said.

  I take it back, God! Billy’s hand scrambled around in his pocket, hurrying to switch his phone to silent.

  ‘Don’t pick up,’ he said. ‘My phone was stolen earlier, that’s why I was late.’

  But it was too late. Thandie had already lifted the phone to her ear.

  ‘Listen to me carefully,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what you want, but if you ever call this number again, I’m phoning the police.’

  Oh dear, thought Billy.

  4.

  Bill stared at his phone, aghast. This couldn’t just be because he was late for lunch. Somehow, Thandie must have found out about Anthony. Well, there was no point going home now. Not without a serious rethink, of the pub variety.

  The Boar’s Head was an unreconstructed old-man pub that the hipsters had yet to discover and destroy. The smell of stale beer, windows that let in no light, a carpet that stuck to your feet with every step, ancient geezers in rotting jackets sitting at small round tables drinking bitter and reading the Racing Post, ignoring each other and yet enjoying the companionship of being ageing and cantankerous together. Bill loved the unpretentiousness of it, which he knew made him pretentious himself, but he didn’t care.

  Not entirely to his surprise, he spotted Sal sitting at the back of the room, with some leftover chip papers beside her, drinking a lime and soda and making her way through a pile of magazines. Sal’s hobby was hobby magazines. She liked reading them and imagining having the hobbies she didn’t have. Today she had fresh copies of Angler’s Mail, Crochet World and Fine Art Connoisseur. Bill wondered where she had got the money from. He knew she’d been fired from her latest job, in the sweet shop on the high street, for giving sweets away to cute children, cute children being the main customer base of the sweet shop. He’d popped in to see her, and the manager had explained, with regret, that he’d had to let her go, even though she was a pleasure to have around the place. He was sure, he’d said, that she’d find something else. Bill wasn’t so sure.

  Bill got himself a whisky and ginger from the bar – the barmaid greeted him by name, another reason he liked this place – and went and sat down beside his sister.

  ‘You all right, Sal?’ he said.

  ‘I’m learning how to make an antique-style lace shawl,’ said Sal. She held up Crochet World.

  ‘I heard about the job.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry, Bill. I really tried this time.’

  ‘It’s OK, Sal, you don’t have to apologise to me. We just need to find you something more suited to you. Maybe you can become a professional crochet-er.’

  ‘I don’t think so. It looks really hard. I think it would take me a year to make one antique-style lace shawl with …’ She squinted at the page ‘… broderie anglaise detailing.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry. We’ll think of something.’ He put his arm around his sister’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

  ‘Thanks, bro. So. How was lunch?’

  ‘I didn’t go.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just called Thandie to apologise for running late, and she was really angry. So I haven’t gone yet. Too scary.’

  ‘But I took you there myself.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Half an hour ago. Thandie gave me twenty quid.’ Sal indicated the hobby magazines with her hand.

  Bill frowned. Sal wasn’t the sharpest pickle in the jar, true, but she wasn’t delusional. She must be remembering another time, another twenty quid – Thandie giving her money was hardly unprecedented, Bill didn’t think it was a good idea, it was one of the many things they argued about. But that was hardly the main issue now. Losing this job must have affected her more than she was letting on.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘why don’t you try that newsagent that’s just opened, down on the front? They might be looking for someone. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Working with magazines?’

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ said Sal. ‘Thanks, Bill! Are you feeling better now, by the way?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You were acting really weird, earlier.’

  There wasn’t any earlier. But Bill didn’t want to worry her, so he just said, ‘Yes, I’m feeling much better.’

  He knocked back his whisky and ginger, enjoyed the fizz and the burn.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Better go and face the music.’

  Though first he was going to drop into that newsagent himself, and have a word with the owner. Not to put off seeing Thandie, obviously not. Just doing a favour for his little sis.

  5.

  Coming out of the newsagent, having primed the owner for Sal’s arrival, Bill spotted his sister heading along the waterfront towards him. He waved her over.

  ‘Sorry, Billy,’ she said, ‘that took forever.’

  ‘Really?’ said Bill. ‘I thought you were very quick. Are you going in right now? I’ll come with you if you like.’

  ‘In where?’

  ‘The newsagent.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sally, ‘I wasn’t going there. I found us rooms.’

  ‘Rooms?’

  ‘At a B&B.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we need them.’

  A lifetime of being Sal’s brother and she was still able to surprise him. He underestimated her, he realised. He was used to thinking of her as someone he needed to help and protect. And now she was looking after him, anticipating his needs, just at the right moment. Thandie was furious this time. They had been through some rocky patches in their marriage, sure, but she had never threatened to call the police before. Of course, he couldn’t go home, not with things the way they were between them. He needed space, time to figure out what to do next. And who other than Sal would realise this? Sal, who knew him better than anyone?

  ‘Sal, you’re the best,’ Bill told her. ‘But you don’t need to come and stay with me. I’ll be fine on my own.’

  ‘Where else am I going to stay?’ said Sally.

  Bill was moved beyond words. He threw his arms around his sister and hugged her close.

  Sally led the way to the B&B she had found. It was on a seedy strip not far from the station, a row of stucco-fronted buildings with pieces missing, like chunks of icing snaffled off a wedding cake. They all had signs outside them with names like ‘Seaview Cottage’ or ‘Ocean Sands’, despite the fact that the only water you could see from their rooms was rising damp. You could smell the sea though, that familiar tang in the air, mixed with the stench of bubbling fat from the chip shop on the corner and wafts of sour heat from the launderette next door to it.