The Rise and Fall of the Queen of Suburbia: A Black-Hearted Soap Opera. Sarah May

newsreader started to interview a couple of soldiers.

      ‘They did the same thing in America,’ Jessica said. ‘The Army Research Institute ran a programme to enhance the para psychological abilities of a few select soldiers.’

      ‘Meaning what?’

      ‘Meaning they were trying to train them to use a range of non-weapon-dependent techniques not readily available to the average soldier.’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘Like walking through walls – being able to leave their bodies.’

      ‘How d’you know all this?’

      ‘I read.’

      ‘Oh, you read.’

      ‘They were trying to develop a First Earth Battalion.’

      ‘To fight what?’

      ‘I don’t know – intergalactic wars?’

      ‘Yeah, right.’ Joe sat down next to her. ‘I need your help with something.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Mum’s Christmas present.’

      ‘You haven’t got her anything?’

      ‘Not yet, no.’

      ‘Nothing?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’

      He leant forward, watching the screen.

      ‘That’s just so depressing, Dad – Dad?’

      ‘I was thinking of maybe underwear.’ He turned towards her and paused. ‘Jess?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Well, what do you think?’

      ‘What’s it got to do with me?’

      ‘Well, you’re a woman, and …’

      ‘I’m not a woman – I’m your daughter.’

      ‘But I don’t know about size and stuff.’

      ‘You don’t know her size?’

      ‘Well, do you?’

      ‘Why the hell would I? This is really depressing, Dad.’

      Joe watched the screen as a man in uniform started to levitate, then got up and changed channels.

      ‘Dad – I’m watching that.’

      ‘There’s got to be something else on.’ BBC2 was showing The Wizard of Oz. He watched Judy Garland get surrounded by munchkins – Jessica didn’t say anything – then sat back down on the sofa.

      Why did men buy women underwear? To buy them the sort they imagined fucking them in or taking off then fucking them without. What did he imagine fucking Linda without? Without black? No. Without white? In fact, what colour underwear did Linda usually wear? He couldn’t remember. He saw her either fully clothed or naked, but never in between. In between was for people who didn’t make it to the bedroom; people with sex drives still intact; people like Mick and Dominique, according to Linda. He could imagine Mick buying underwear. Mick would have a place he went to regularly in Brighton or London where they knew his name and where all the assistants imagined being the woman he was buying the underwear for. Did Linda ever wonder what it would be like to be Mick’s wife? Why didn’t he have any drive for this kind of thing? Was he dead? Maybe he’d died and Jessica and Linda were just too polite to point it out.

      ‘Perfume,’ Jessica said, watching the screen intently now. ‘Get her perfume.’

      ‘She said if she got one more bottle of perfume or one more pair of earrings she’d …’

      ‘She’d what?’

      ‘I don’t know, she was too angry to finish.’ He felt a sudden, intense pity for Linda and, turning to Jessica, was about to say something cutting when a huge smile started spreading across her face as she watched the film, which meant that any minute now she was going to start laughing, and Jessica laughing was something he wanted to see.

      Then the phone rang.

      Joe was standing in the lingerie department at Farrington’s, Littlehaven’s only department store, listening to a woman with backcombed hair on the Windsmoor counter confessing loudly to another assistant that she always washed her face in her bathwater. He scanned the rails of mostly white underwear, broken by a single block of purple and more beige than seemed necessary. It was all wrong. He wasn’t going to find Linda here, and he definitely wasn’t going to find him and Linda here.

      ‘Can I help you?’

      It was the woman from the Windsmoor counter who, up close, was much taller than him and had mostly grey teeth.

      ‘Well … yeah … I was looking for something for my wife. For Christmas. For my wife. For …’

      ‘… Christmas,’ the woman finished, then nodded as if she was thinking about this. ‘Let me show you our new range – Lissière.’ She headed towards the purple. ‘The lace is French,’ she said, and paused as if this should mean something to him, or maybe she’d just been trained to say the word ‘French’ a lot because everybody knew that the French were the only nation who had post-marital sex. ‘The sequin detail really is quite unique – of course it means it has to be hand-washed, but then I always hand-wash underwired bras anyway. My washing machine broke down once and when the engineer came out to fix it he found wire from one of my bras jammed behind the drum.’ She stared down at the purple Lissière bra. ‘I nearly died.’

      Joe, who had been staring at the bra as well, looked up. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly.

      They glanced quickly at each other, both suddenly aware that neither of them was going to enjoy this.

      ‘The range is entirely new. Very French.’

      Joe nodded rhythmically in time to her patter. What was this – did you have to be French to fuck these days?

      ‘And look at the detail.’ She flicked up the single sequin sewn between the cups then flicked it down again. ‘You can tell it’s French.’ She held the bra out towards him. Unsure what he was meant to do, he rubbed the lace trim between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Very nice.’

      ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ She looked down, contemplating the bra again.

      ‘The only thing is … I’m not sure about the purple.’

      ‘It isn’t purple.’

      ‘It isn’t?’

      She shook her head. ‘It’s lilac – you don’t like lilac?’