EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-TWO
Donald was in the
kitchen preparing a lasagne when the phone rang. ‘Can you get that?’ he called
out to Ted. ‘I’ll just bung this in the oven and I’ll be right there.’
He heard Ted’s nervous voice answering, then silence. Puzzled, Donald went into
the living room, and saw his partner standing over the coffee table holding the
hands-free away from him as if it was a deadly snake.
‘Who was that?’ Donald asked.
Before Ted had a chance to answer it, it rang again. Donald scowled, guessing who the caller was.
‘Huh-hello?’ Ted began nervously as he answered.
Even from across the other side of the enormous living room, Donald could
clearly hear Marjorie’s voice screaming at her husband, cursing him with the
worst obscenities she could think of. Ted hung up again, and stared helplessly
and a touch apologetically at Donald. The telephone rang again, shrill and
piercing, and Ted winced.
Donald bounded across the room and snatched it out of his hand, clicked it to
answer, clicked it off, and then switched it to call, so that if Marjorie tried
to ring again, she would get the engaged tone.
‘How the hell did she get this number?’ Donald demanded, glaring at Ted.
Ted shook his head and swallowed rapidly, his eyes glassy and his voice almost
a whisper. ‘I don’t know. I have no idea.’
‘I’m ex-directory, there is no way she could know this number, unless...’ He
stared accusingly at Ted. ‘I asked you to use your mobile whenever you
contacted her.
The only way she could have got this number is if you called her on the
landline and she dialled 1-4-7-1 after the call.’
Ted gazed into Donald’s eyes, like a child pleading to be forgiven. ‘I’m sorry.
I was so desperate to see Miranda, I forgot.’
Donald blew his cheeks out making an exasperated noise with his lips. ‘This is
such a nuisance. We’re going to have to complain to BT about nuisance calls and
have the number changed.’
‘I’m sorry, Donald. I really am.’
‘Yes, well, I was looking forward to an evening at home. We’ll just have to go
out for dinner – and you can pay to make amends.’
‘What about the lasagne?’
‘I’ll cook it when we get home, then freeze it.’
‘So why do we have to go out?’
Donald sighed loudly, wondering why his partner could be so infuriatingly dense
at times. ‘Because I’ll have to switch the phone back on, in case I get some
genuine calls. I’ll leave it on voice
mail and the wife from hell can leave as many messages as she damn-well likes.’
He clicked the call switch off and on again, and began dialling.
‘Who’re you calling?’
‘A taxi. I feel like having too much to drink with my dinner.’
*
Vanessa was on the sofa watching a repeat episode of Waking the Dead when she heard the key in the lock. She picked up
the remote and switched the television off, waiting for Paul to enter,
expecting the self-assurance that was part of his phoney demeanour, one that
was now so transparent. How, she asked herself, had she ever been taking in by
it? And she was still smarting from the blow of him walking out on her in the
morning.
But when he entered the living room, she could see the heavy dejection in his
shoulders. He avoided her look, as her frosty eyes bore into him, deeply
resentful of the way she’d been treated. He slumped into a brown leather
easy-chair and sat with a hand covering his forehead and eyes. She heard him
sniff.
She almost took pleasure now in his failure, glad that something had gone wrong
with his meeting, so that she could indulge in rubbing salt into his wound.
Her voice was deadly calm and cold as she spoke.
‘I suppose it’s another failure. Another stupid pie-in-the-sky scheme gone down
the pan.’
He took his hand away from his eyes, and she could see they were bloodshot,
either from drink or tears. But now she had challenged him, he locked eyes with
her, and she could see anger and hatred.
‘OK, gloat if you like, even if it is through your stupid mixed metaphors.’
Her anger rushed to the surface. ‘I might mix my metaphors,’ she shouted, ‘but
at least I have some grasp on reality. Not some...some...stupid pretence.
That’s what your life is: living a lie. It’s time you faced up to...’
Pointing his finger at her like a gun, he interrupted with, ‘It’s a setback –
admittedly. But it’s not a total disaster. The backers thought they were
getting Ray Winstone, but we can’t even get him to read the script. And without
a leading actor in place, they’re not interested. So we’ll just have to find
someone else.’
‘And that’s going to be easy, is it?’
Paul dropped his finger, looked away from her, and shrugged sulkily. ‘Not
really. But we’ll get there – eventually.’
Vanessa’s eyes were like hot coals as she glared at him. ‘And meanwhile?’
‘Meanwhile,’ he said, pulling himself up, ‘I’m going to pop along to the Beau
Nash for a nightcap.’
She could suddenly see how drunk he was, as he gripped the armrest for support.
‘I should think you’ve had enough.’
‘If I want another drink...’ he began, feeling in his pockets. ‘Trouble is,
I’ve run out of money.’
His eyes latched on to her handbag on the coffee table. He staggered across the
room towards it, but she snatched it away.
‘No, you don’t.’
He grabbed the bag and tugged. They struggled for a moment, then he suddenly
lashed out, and hit her sharply across the face with his open palm. She shrank
back onto the sofa, crying and frightened as he tipped the contents of her bag
onto the coffee table. He opened her purse, and took out the only ten pound
note that was in there.
After he was gone, Vanessa picked up the telephone and dialled. As soon as
Jackie answered, Vanessa sobbed, ‘Mum! I want to come home. Now!’
*
After they returned from dinner at Carluccio’s, Donald paid for the taxi. He
was feeling better now that he’d had a good meal, with plenty of wine, followed
by brandy and coffee. But when he saw his Volvo Estate, which was parked in the
small drive outside the front door, he thought he might have a coronary.
‘Look at my car!’ he gasped. ‘Look what the bitch has done to it.’
There were four flat, slashed tyres, and the front and rear windscreens had
been smashed, as well as the headlights.
‘That bitch!’ Donald screamed. ‘We’ve got to do something. She has to be
stopped.’
‘We don’t know it’s her,’ Ted said. ‘It might have been vandals.’
Donald looked at his partner as if he could strangle him. ‘Vandals! I think that’s
singular. Vandal! Of course it’s her. Who else would it have been? After she
plagued us with those phone calls.’
He dropped his hands and began blubbering like a lost boy. ‘My beautiful car. I
loved that car.’
Ted, who had always thought of large cars as environmentally unfriendly, said
unhelpfully, ‘It’s a shame, Donald. But if we contact the police, you’ll get
the insurance. After all, it’s only a piece of metal.’
IN EPISODE 153
Nigel has a religious experience.