There is a fine line between the high wire and a disappearing act.
Mr Kite
When she arrived at the airport, her husband was standing on the curb with his suitcase and mobile phone. She waved and called him. He looked up and saw her. Smiling through his conversation – he started walking towards the car.
She opened up the boot and he put the case in.
He was going to get in beside her; then changed his mind. He came round her side and as she moved over, he got in the driver’s seat. He drove fast up to the hump and braked. As they went up and over the second hump, she asked how he was; he told her he was tired but exhilarated.
The trip had gone well. It seemed the company in the north was happy to liaise in what he described – using the English expression – as a joint venture.
It was late when they got home. The maid whose night off it was had left something in the fridge, but her husband wasn’t hungry. They took his suitcase upstairs to the bedroom.
He opened the case and undid the dividers.
The present was in a plain black box. Inside was a green dress: very simple, but exquisitely cut. “You shouldn’t have,” she said. “You must have spent a fortune.”
“I hope it fits,” he said.
She took off her jeans, and sweatshirt, and pulled the dress over her head. She stood back to look at herself in the mirror. He came up behind her and touched her lightly on the neck. She leaned back; he bent down to kiss her.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “What about the shoes?”
“I already thought about those,” he said, describing a pair of heels in her wardrobe.
The following night, at a small dinner party with some of his male friends, she had worn the dress to please her husband. At first, she felt uncomfortable as though the men were looking at her and undressing her with their minds.
It was one of those parties where people got quickly drunk. To hide the fact that she was flustered, she sought to distract them with neutral conversation, but they ignored her efforts. They all seemed locked in a battle of wits to impress her. The repartee was particularly sharp. She detected something in her husband’s tone that she did not like. Because she did not like scenes, she got up to go into the kitchen.
When she came back with a dish, however, everyone was laughing. It was relaxed, uninhabited laughter.
Among the guests was an actor who her husband had known from school but with whom he had lost touch. The actor was touring the provinces with a production of Uncle Vanya.
“My character is like being stuck in a room with a maiden aunt polishing a gun, while everyone frets around me,” he said.
Everyone laughed.
The actor was excellent company; like most actors, he had a number of funny anecdotes involving actors, celebrities and people who were famous for simply being famous.
The dinner party appeared to be a success; the guests went away, she thought, in a happy state of inebriation, and with the sour note of the early evening forgotten.
They went upstairs to bed. Her husband stood by the dresser, while she took off her earrings.
“I thought it went well,” he said.
“Apart from the sticky patch at the beginning.”
“You did a good job,” he said. “That lot can be tricky sometimes.”
She mentioned the actor who seemed to be the life and soul of the party. “Actually,” said her husband, “he’s miserable, having recently split with his wife in an acrimonious divorce.”
“Who’s his lawyer?”
“Avocado Cassa.”
“Why do you call him that?”
“Oh, it’s an old joke. We used to say he had adenoids.”
“Well,” she said, “he does a very good job of hiding it.”
“Who? Avocado Cassa?”
“Your actor… he’s very entertaining. I wish I had half his talent.”
“My wife has other talents.”
Her husband’s voice trailed off, as he looked at her. The colour was in his cheeks, but she knew what he wanted. Wanting to please him, she let the dress slip to the floor and stepped out of it, and walked over to the bed in her heels.
Without saying anything, she lay down on the bed with her back to him. She felt his hands wrapping round her body. As she raised her bottom in the air, he pulled down her panties. Shortly, she felt his penis between her legs, then his shortening breath.
She was still in a state of arousal when he came. She fell asleep only to be woken from a nightmare involving her husband. They were in a flat she did not recognise. She had a feeling it was very high up, not exactly in a skyscraper, nevertheless a tall block of flats. They were with someone that they both knew but could not see. At some point, the friend said, “I’m going to jump”. She woke up just as his mind seemed to be set, and she saw him leaping from the window.
By now she was wide-awake, and knew she would not go back to sleep. She went down into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Then she went into the room they used as a study. But since she was not in the mood to read, and her mind was now clear, she took out the notebook where she used to write her journal, or as she was coming to think of it as her Q book.
Her husband did not have to go away for the rest of week; he spent most of the day in the office, and when he came home in the evening, his mind was still on his work. She tried to distract him, but it was no good. Someone kept phoning up and he kept disappearing into the study to check something on the internet. Eventually she got bored, went upstairs, and made a long-distance phone call.
When he came upstairs, she was still on the phone; she became aware of him waiting for her to finish her conversation. If she was irritated, she did not show it.
She felt his hand around her neck, as she pulled up her hair. He did not have any success with the clasp, so she did it herself, putting the necklace down on the dresser.
“Who was that on the phone?”
“A friend.”
“A friend?”
“You met once.”
She began to contextualise their meeting; suddenly interested, he leaned over and whispered in her ear.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “We didn’t do things like that.”
“Don’t believe you. Anyway,” he said, lying back on the pillow, “I seem to have forgotten. – You never told me what she looked like.”
“Use your imagination.”
“I haven’t got an imagination. – You told me yourself. I may not have a good imagination but I’ve got a good memory.”
Again he leaned over and whispered something in her ear, which she pretended not to hear.
“Porco,” she said, poking him in the stomach, “you’re putting on weight.”
He looked at her with feigned indignation, but she kept up the line of attack.
“You must go on a diet,” she said. “Eat less protein, less lust.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Less protein,” she said, putting her hand on his thigh. “It’s good for you.”
Someone phoned on his mobile; he got up and went to answer it. She watched him talking into the mobile.
He disappeared into the other room. A few minutes later, he came back into the room with some documents.
He spoke sharply into the phone. His voice went loud. He spoke quickly – then hung up.
“I was right,” she said. “Soon you won’t be able to see your balls.”
“Wife,” he said, wearing a wounded expression. “That’s not true.”
“What you need is a sound regimen,” she said.
“What’s that?” He said. “It sounds frightening.”
Now she was lying across him with her elbow resting on his stomach scrutinising his face. “You didn’t shave, either.”
“Well,” he said optimistically, “are you going to shave me now?”
“I rather think that’s your job.”
“My job?”
“Yes, your job.”
She began to undo the buttons of his trousers.
“Is this part of the regimen?”
He pulled her down to whisper something in her ear. In her mind’s eye she saw the jumper. Was she ready to leap?