‘The last three dates, Rob.’ Already she was having trouble hiding her bitterness. She didn’t know if she could calm down and stay afloat before getting in over her head. Of course, that had always been her problem.
‘Well … yes, I know,’ he conceded. ‘I tried to explain on the phone. That’s why I thought it better we meet.’
Sandra surveyed the empty pub. ‘Isn’t this a bit public for you?’
His nerves belied his words. ‘No. People wouldn’t read anything into it. They know you’re the Admin Secretary for the Specials. It would be natural for you and me to have a get-together here.’
At the bar, Briggsy arranged the drinks on a tray, trying not to listen, or at least not to hear anything specific that could become the next hot gossip if he were, even in a moment of weakness, other than the soul of discretion. Nevertheless, he had their relationship well and truly pegged.
‘Maybe we should come right out and tell them,’ she said in a much too loud voice. ‘Rob Barker and Sandra Gibson are doing it! Isn’t it wonderful?’
He was not amused. ‘For pity’s sake, Sandra …’
Quickly he alerted her with his eyes that Briggsy was coming with the drinks. At least she held her tongue for the time being, so he could cover for them. ‘Thank you, Briggsy. All work and no play, I’ve been telling Sandra.’
‘Oh yes?’ Briggsy asked rhetorically, not waiting for an answer before leaving them alone.
He waited until Briggsy was out of sight, then became serious again. ‘That isn’t the way we planned it.’
‘Oh, that’s right, we had a “plan”, didn’t we?’ So gullible in the past, her cynicism now betrayed her. All she could see behind her was two wasted years of her life waiting for this sorry man to sort himself out. That had been the ‘plan’, hadn’t it? To offload a wife who thought more of herself and her infirmities and less of Rob’s career as a draughtsman and his happiness? What was any different now, other than Sandra’s unhappiness as well?
‘And here we are – two years down the M6 – and I’m still waiting to hear what’s changed in all that time. You had a wife you didn’t love. And she couldn’t care less what you did.’ His eyes didn’t contradict her, but he was helpless to escape her conclusion. ‘Well, you still have the same wife, don’t you, Rob?’
His expression begged her not to burn their bridges behind them. ‘She’s the reason I couldn’t get to see you. She’s ill, Sandra,’ he implored her for the hundredth time. ‘Wants to go back to Scotland.’ By this he seemed to be holding out a ray of hope, despite appearing to withdraw from the spotlight. ‘It’s been very difficult for me.’
‘What do you want, Rob? My sympathy? It’s in short supply right now.’ Her, of all people – known far and wide as the Mother of all Midland Specials, whose entire life had become consumed by a job that demanded sympathy and concern and attention for many, many people – drained of her capacity for loving or caring for anyone by one man. ‘I get the feeling this is some kind of risky adventure for you. A bit on the side that got serious, and you don’t know how to handle it.’ He winced. Touché. ‘Well, I’m sorry. I’ve had enough of backstreet affairs.’
To her their love had been a series of meetings, arranging their future on maps endlessly sketched, redrawn and reconstructed. Alone, he made love to her openly; yet when they were not alone intrigue seemed the compelling force in their relationship, at least on his part.
‘I just need time,’ he sighed, his standard refrain. ‘To sort out the whole mess. It’s bloody hard telling an invalid you want a divorce.’
The same old story, the story of her life, only different. But a sick feeling of impending separation reminiscent of the other one … other ones … who got away. She blew the air out of her cheeks, giving up the ghost.
‘I need your help,’ he pleaded. ‘What do you want me to do?’
She felt weak in the stomach. ‘To grow up.’
Toby and Loach weren’t getting anywhere with the houseowner or his stone-face wife. ‘Unless we know for sure, we just can’t barge in next door,’ Toby was telling them. ‘We’ll need a warrant.’
In the meantime, the vehemence of the houseowner’s neighbourly animosity has not diminished one iota on the tantrum gauge. ‘I don’t believe it! Are you saying you have to wait for the blood to leak out under the front door before you’ll do anything?’
Suddenly a series of horrendous crashes exploded in their ears, coming from next door. Loach and Toby exchanged startled glances, then raced for the door. The houseowner mocked them with a told-you-so smile: ‘I could do with a nice cup of tea …’
Toby pounded on the door of the next house, Loach backing him up. After a few moments, the door opened slowly.
Alert to any possibility, Toby was shocked into alarm by the young man standing in the doorway. Appearing exhausted, his shirt and pants in disarray, the young man was leaning on a long-handled axe, as if he’d been chopping wood for a long winter or impersonating Lizzie Borden.
Instantly Toby rushed the man and disarmed him, taking possession of the weapon. The young man frowned, but didn’t block or resist his move in any way. ‘Can we come in and have a chat, sir?’
Though confused, the young man shrugged. ‘Sure. Why not?’
When Toby and Loach reached the main room inside the house, they discovered a scene of cataclysmic devastation. The place was a total shambles: furniture all smashed, pictures and knick-knacks shattered to smithereens, the carpet mottled with shards of vapourized porcelain and pottery. Simultaneously apprehensive and baffled, they viewed the scene like virgin soldiers sickened at their first sight of mass destruction.
‘Is your wife here, sir?’ Loach asked him.
The young man gave him a cool nod.
‘Then we’d like to see her,’ Loach informed him warily.
For the first time, the young husband was truculent. ‘You’d better find out if she wants to see you.’
Toby tried to correct the young husband’s apparent misconception. ‘You don’t seen to understand, sir. We want to see your wife … now.’
‘Listen. What my wife does is her choice. Okay?’
‘No, it isn’t okay,’ Toby admonished him. ‘You’re going to be in serious trouble if we don’t see your wife pretty sharpish.’
‘What for?’ said a woman’s voice behind them, and as they turned around, a young woman – obviously the husband’s wife – walked between them into the room. In her hands was a sublime blue vase, and on her face a look of blue thunder not the least sublime.
‘What the hell so you want?’ she inquired, pitching the vase past them. Instinctively they ducked, as a blue streak disintegrated against the wall behind them.
Loach looked at Toby, and Toby looked at Loach, silently asking each other what the hell was going on here. Had they somehow wandered into the psychiatric ward?
An unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, the young husband searched his pockets for a match. The young wife happened to notice him, looked through the debris and unearthed a small jade object. Retrieving it from the rubble, she flipped it at her husband.
By now a bit gun-shy, again Loach and Toby ducked. The young husband caught the lighter easily and lit his cigarette.
‘It’s them next door, isn’t it?’ griped the young wife.
Their failure to answer confirmed she was right.
‘Well, you can tell Mr and Mrs Snoopy that we’re having a divorce,