Maureen to know that Douglas had had a series of affairs and she knew all about it. He had told her that he had taken on private work at an addiction clinic in Peebles, hence the Monday sleepover, but he had never been interested in that sort of work. They had a combined income of sixty-five K a year anyway, so it wasn't as if they needed the money. "So you see," said Elsbeth, a kindly veneer over her vindictive intent, "you're just the last in a long line of women."
"Yeah," said Maureen flatly, "I guessed. Am I the first one you've met?"
"Oh, no," she said, casually unaware of the pitiful picture she was painting of herself, "no, you're not."
And what the fuck were they doing, thought Maureen, having this petty, bland conversation, as if any of it mattered, as if Douglas hadn't been sliced up and killed hours before? She stopped herself. This is Elsbeth's time, she thought, this is her triumph. Let her have it. Be kind. Maureen tried to imagine what it would be like to be the wife of a philanderer, how likeable she herself would have been after a decade of hanging on to Douglas.
She had a sudden vision of him on the second night they had spent together. He had come over, ostensibly to apologize, but had stayed. Maureen had come back into the living room with a glass of water and had seen him lying on his side where she had left him, the image of Manet's Olympia, with his trousers around his knees and his shirt rumpled up around his chest, nonchalantly displaying his fervent hard-on. His dick wasn't round but strangely rectangular, like his buttocks, curiously geometric. But what she remembered most fondly was the unashamedly lewd look he had given her. She had knelt down next to him and leaned forward, pressing her face into the soft skin on his warm, hairy belly.
Sitting opposite Elsbeth, trying to retain her composure, she could feel Douglas's chest hair brushing her face, up and down, up and down.
Elsbeth had a great job. She worked in the graphics department in the BBC. She talked about the Corporation as though it was a beloved family friend. "What do you do?" she asked. The smile behind her eyes suggested that she already knew.
"I work at the ticket office in the Apollo."
"Oh?"
Maureen had smoked two cigarettes without as much as a cup of tea and her mouth was foul. A decade of petty humiliations and a faithless, murdered husband couldn't make Elsbeth sympathetic.
On her way out Elsbeth asked whether Douglas had ever given Maureen money.
"No," said Maureen quickly. She thought Elsbeth was trying to shame her further until she noticed the anxious expression on her face. There was something more behind the question. Elsbeth was looking for something. She was looking for some missing money.
"Well," said Maureen, as if she was thinking about it, "like when?"
"Couple of days ago?"
"Fifty quid," lied Maureen.
"Just fifty pounds?"
"Yeah, do you want it back?"
"No, no. Not important."
Maureen left the flat with the feeling that she had unwittingly been involved in a suburban wife-swapping circle. The thought depressed her beyond measure.
Chapter 5
EQUAL
She walked the three blocks to the Byres Road with her mind full of Douglas, Douglas gliding around his tasteful West End apartment, Douglas in her kitchen eating a roll and bacon, Douglas dead, tied into the chair, his neck slashed open. She stopped walking suddenly and shut her eyes, rubbing them hard with her fingers, trying to scrub away the image.
If she had taken the phone calls at work the day before he might have told her why he wasn't at work, he might have mentioned someone, something that would make sense of it. She thought about it realistically: he'd have lied and said things were fine. He'd have asked her about going to see Louisa and been pissed off at the mention of Leslie. But she couldn't dismiss it completely. It troubled her that he had called from a pay phone and it bothered her that he had phoned three times. He should have been at
"Yeah," said Maureen flatly, "I guessed. Am I the first one you've met?"
"Oh, no," she said, casually unaware of the pitiful picture she was painting of herself, "no, you're not."
And what the fuck were they doing, thought Maureen, having this petty, bland conversation, as if any of it mattered, as if Douglas hadn't been sliced up and killed hours before? She stopped herself. This is Elsbeth's time, she thought, this is her triumph. Let her have it. Be kind. Maureen tried to imagine what it would be like to be the wife of a philanderer, how likeable she herself would have been after a decade of hanging on to Douglas.
She had a sudden vision of him on the second night they had spent together. He had come over, ostensibly to apologize, but had stayed. Maureen had come back into the living room with a glass of water and had seen him lying on his side where she had left him, the image of Manet's Olympia, with his trousers around his knees and his shirt rumpled up around his chest, nonchalantly displaying his fervent hard-on. His dick wasn't round but strangely rectangular, like his buttocks, curiously geometric. But what she remembered most fondly was the unashamedly lewd look he had given her. She had knelt down next to him and leaned forward, pressing her face into the soft skin on his warm, hairy belly.
Sitting opposite Elsbeth, trying to retain her composure, she could feel Douglas's chest hair brushing her face, up and down, up and down.
Elsbeth had a great job. She worked in the graphics department in the BBC. She talked about the Corporation as though it was a beloved family friend. "What do you do?" she asked. The smile behind her eyes suggested that she already knew.
"I work at the ticket office in the Apollo."
"Oh?"
Maureen had smoked two cigarettes without as much as a cup of tea and her mouth was foul. A decade of petty humiliations and a faithless, murdered husband couldn't make Elsbeth sympathetic.
On her way out Elsbeth asked whether Douglas had ever given Maureen money.
"No," said Maureen quickly. She thought Elsbeth was trying to shame her further until she noticed the anxious expression on her face. There was something more behind the question. Elsbeth was looking for something. She was looking for some missing money.
"Well," said Maureen, as if she was thinking about it, "like when?"
"Couple of days ago?"
"Fifty quid," lied Maureen.
"Just fifty pounds?"
"Yeah, do you want it back?"
"No, no. Not important."
Maureen left the flat with the feeling that she had unwittingly been involved in a suburban wife-swapping circle. The thought depressed her beyond measure.
Chapter 5
EQUAL
She walked the three blocks to the Byres Road with her mind full of Douglas, Douglas gliding around his tasteful West End apartment, Douglas in her kitchen eating a roll and bacon, Douglas dead, tied into the chair, his neck slashed open. She stopped walking suddenly and shut her eyes, rubbing them hard with her fingers, trying to scrub away the image.
If she had taken the phone calls at work the day before he might have told her why he wasn't at work, he might have mentioned someone, something that would make sense of it. She thought about it realistically: he'd have lied and said things were fine. He'd have asked her about going to see Louisa and been pissed off at the mention of Leslie. But she couldn't dismiss it completely. It troubled her that he had called from a pay phone and it bothered her that he had phoned three times. He should have been at
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