Death of a Salesperson by Robert Barnard Page B

tea,’ he said. ‘Everyone needs a tea-break in their working morning.’
    Tea . . .
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    Shortly after this there was a break in Caroline’s delicious early-morning routine: her son Malcolm came home for a long weekend from school. Michael became no more than the neighbour’s son, at whom she smiled in the corridor. She and Malcolm had breakfast round the kitchen table. It was on Tuesday morning, when Malcolm was due to depart later in the day, that Ben made one of his little slips.
    He was interviewing Cassy Le Beau from the long-running pop group The Crunch, and as he leaned forward to introduce a clip from the video of their latest musical crime, he said:
    â€˜Now, this is going to interest Caroline and Michael, watching at home—’
    â€˜Why did he say Michael?’ asked Caroline aloud, before she could stop herself.
    â€˜He meant Malcolm,’ said their son. ‘Anyway, it’s bloody insulting, him thinking I’d be interested in The Crunch.’
    Because Malcolm was currently rehearsing Elgar’s Second with the London Youth Orchestra. Ben was about two years out of date with his interests.
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    â€˜Did you see that yesterday morning?’ Caroline asked Michael, the next day.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Ben’s slip on Wake Up, Britain yesterday.’
    â€˜I don’t watch breakfast telly when I’m not with you.’
    â€˜Well, he did one of those “little messages home” that he does—you probably don’t remember, but there was all this publicity about the families when Wake Up, Britain started,and Ben got into the habit of putting little messages to Malcolm and me into the programme. Ever so cosy and ever so bogus. Anyway, he did one yesterday, as Malcolm was home, only he said “Caroline and Michael”. Not Malcolm, but Michael.’
    Michael shrugged.
    â€˜Just a slip of the tongue.’
    â€˜But his own son , for Christ’s sake! And for the slip to come out as Michael !’
    â€˜These things happen,’ said Michael, putting his arm around her and pushing her head back on to the pillow. ‘Was there a Michael on the show yesterday?’
    â€˜There was Michael Heseltine on, as usual.’
    â€˜There you are, you see.’
    â€˜But Heseltine’s an ex-cabinet minister. He would never call him Michael.’
    â€˜But the name was in his head. These things happen. Remember, Ben’s getting old.’
    â€˜True,’ said Caroline, who was two years younger than her husband.
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    â€˜Old!’ shouted Ben, dabbing at his artificially-darkened eyebrows, one eye on the screen. ‘You think I’m old? I’ll show you I’ve still got some bolts left in my locker.’
    He had dispensed with the services of the make-up girl. He had been the only regular on Wake Up, Britain to demand one anyway, and the studio was surprised but pleased when Ben decided she was no longer required. Now he could watch the previous evening’s cavortings without the damper of her adolescent disapproval from behind his shoulder.
    And now he could plan.
    One of the factors that just had to be turned to his advantage was Caroline’s deplorable housekeeping. All the table-tops of the kitchen were littered with bits of this and that—herbs, spices, sauces, old margarine tubs, bits of jam on dishes. The fridge was like the basement of the Victoriaand Albert Museum, and the freezer was a record of their married life. And on the window-ledge in the kitchen were the things he used to do his little bit of gardening . . .
    Ben and Caroline inhabited one of twenty modern service flats in a block. Most of the gardening was done by employees of the landlords, yet some little patches were allotted to tenants who expressed an interest. Ben had always kept up his patch, though (as was the way of such things) it was more