"More likely to be BUPA," he replies shaking his head.
"I don't want to hurt her, you understand. I do still love her. It's just that I love Julie too, and she doesn't love me any more. Not Julie I mean. She still loves me. Well actually she may not. I haven't asked her yet, but she did call me Tom. That is a start wouldn't you say?"
Mr Hudson says nothing. He just sits shaking his head gently. He looks worried about something. "Would it help to talk about it?" I ask him. "Whatever it is that's worrying you, I mean. I find it helps me. Talking about things."
There is a small commotion outside in the main office. I can hear voices being raised. The door to Mr Hudson's office bursts open and two people hurtle through. One is Julie.
"I tried to stop her, Mr Hudson," she says.
The other is Carole.
"Tom!" she cries.
CHAPTER 23
"Mrs Carrol," says Mr Hudson rising from behind his desk and extending his right arm.
"Just Carole, thankyou," she replies ignoring the proffered hand.
"There was no need for you to make a special journey, Mrs C....., Carole. The matter has already been attended to."
"I told you to send him back," responds Carole. "Where was he?"
"A full investigation has been carried out Mrs uhh, Mrs ummm, Carole. And I have dealt adequately with the situation. I think you'll have no more problems."
"I didn't want him dealt with Mr Hudson. I wanted him sent back. I can deal with him myself very well, thankyou."
I sit and listen to the interchange between the two of them. Julie hovers in the doorway. I wonder if we shouldn't leave. This seems to be some personal disagreement between them. Probably doesn't concern me or Julie at all. Just as I resolve to creep quietly out, Carole turns away from Mr Hudson and plants herself squarely in front of me.
"Where did you get to, Tom?" she asks. "I thought we were friends."
"N..No." I cry in surprise. "N..No. Not friends. Not enemies mind you. No animosity on my part I can assure you. Quite warm feelings actually. In a professional manner of speaking of course. Friends in a professional sort of way I suppose you could say. Yes, more acquaintances perhaps. Business friends maybe."
"Friends," she says, smiling. "I think there was a little mixup on Friday wasn't there, Tom?"
"You mean about the pizza?" I ask.
"Mrs Carrol," tries Mr Hudson. "I can assure you there will be no repetition of this unfortunate business. Mr Fletcher will be leaving Hudson's today."
"He will?" gasps Julie.
"I will?" I say. When did that happen? I don't remember that happening.
"He won't!" says Carole. "Not if you want to keep my business, anyway. And not if you want to avoid a story about unfair dismissal in the local paper. I want Mr Fletcher working on my house sale, if you please."
"But the flood?" protests Mr Hudson. He looks confused.
"An unfortunate accident," says Carole. "Just a little water got spilt, that's all. A trivial incident, cleared up and forgotten about. A pity you can't forget it too, Mr Hudson."
I'm not sure whether I still work here. Mr Hudson seems to think I'm leaving, but Carole seems to think I'm staying. "Do I still work here?" I ask Julie.
"I'm not sure, Mr F. I think so," she says.
"Of course you do, Tom. Doesn't he Mr Hudson?"
"I suppose so," he replies grudgingly.
The telephone on Mr Hudson's desk decides to ring. It's someone buzzing through from the outer office. You can tell, because it's a different sort of ring from an outside call. He picks it up and exchanges words with the handset.
"Someone wants to view your house," he says to Carole, putting his hand over the mouthpiece as he speaks. "This morning if possible," he adds.
Listen. I know it's a bit of a coincidence that someone should ring just at that moment, but surely I'm allowed one coincidence in a story this long?
Look. It isn't much of a coincidence, more of a literary device really.
Look. There are other ways of moving the plot on, but this is simple and inexpensive.
Listen. It's my story. If I want a coincidence, I'll have a coincidence, thankyou.
"Oh, goodness," says Carole. "I should be at work really, but I'm late already. Oh, I'll phone in sick. Yes, I suppose it's alright, but make it late morning, around eleven maybe. I'll need to go home and tidy the place up. Perhaps Tom could come and help me? After all, he did create some of the mess in the first place."
***
Geoffrey walked briskly home. It was raining hard, and he was distinctly wet by the time he arrived, despite the black umbrella. Although he had his key, he rang the doorbell, just to be on the safe side. There should be noone there at this time, but he had his explanation ready in case of something unexpected. His heart beat wildly as he waited. He couldn't tell whether from the exertion of the walk or the anticipation. He couldn't deny he felt excited.
He heard the bell ringing inside the deserted house, and when he was sure there was noone home, he let himself in. A curtain twitched in the house opposite, but he didn't notice, and wouldn't have been concerned even if he had seen it.
Once inside he stood his wet umbrella in the sink in the utility area and hurried upstairs. He was still wearing his outside coat and carrying his black briefcase.
He took the wooden pole from the airing cupboard on the landing and used it to let down the trap door in the ceiling. He pulled down the extending ladder and climbed rapidly up.
When he was in the loft he paused for a second, and then decided to pull the ladder back up after him. This was easier said than done, and he had some difficulty in reaching round the ladder to pull the trap door shut. He would have to improve that arrangement he thought to himself. But not now.
***
"I think Miss Green should come with us," I plead to Mr Hudson. "It will be good experience for her." The thought of being left alone again with Carole terrifies me.
"I need her here," Mr Hudson says. "Besides, the last time she went with you I didn't see either of you again all day."
"But Mr Hudson, you did say I could help Mr F. on this sale," says Julie. "You said it was part of my training."
"You can join them later, Miss Green, when the client arrives. Just for the moment Fletcher is going to take Mrs C...., Carole home to help her clear up the mess he made on Friday. And I want no more mistakes, Fletcher. Do you understand?"
"I'll stick close to him, Mr Hudson," says Carole. There is the look of victory in her eyes. I feel like a christian about to be fed to the lions. I think I preferred the police cells to this. "Come along, Tom," she says, putting her arm through mine. "We must go. We'll take my car, but you can drive."
The rain is torrential. By the time we reach Carole's car we are both soaked. Her insistence on keeping our arms linked means we take twice as long to reach the car, and also that we can't hold the umbrella steady.
"It's a nice big one, Tom. I do like a man with a big one," she says as we get to the carpark. "And such a nice colour, too."
"Yes," I say.
"I can't stand men with little ones," she continues. "All prissy and too small to do you any good at all."
"No," I say.
"Give me a good big one any day," she says as she unlocks the car door. "And if it's a nice bright colour too, then so much the better."
"The biggest ones all used to be black, of course," I reply.
"That doesn't surprise me," she says.
"In fact they all used to be black before nineteen twelve, men's and women's. It wasn't until the introduction of oiled silk that colours crept in for the women."
"My, you certainly know a lot about umbrellas, Tom," she says handing me the ignition key.
"Yes. Julie said that, too," I say.
"Ah. The virginal Miss Green. Now why on earth would you want to be bothered by a silly young thing like that?"
As we drive out of the carpark, Carole puts her hand on my knee. My whole body tense
s up and I try to slide across to the edge of the car. She is unperturbed, and merely slides across to the edge of her seat, too.
At the lights we bunny hop away when the green signal illuminates. It's not easy driving with your knees together.
My throat feels very dry.
"Your trousers are soaking," says Carole. "We'll have to get you out of them as soon as we get home. She pulls her dress up above her knees. "And I'll have to take this straight off, too," she says.
My throat is so dry I can hardly breathe.
At the roundabout, I have to change gear. As I move my foot across to the clutch Carole's hand slides up my thigh. I tense so violently, that the car shoots forward and we plough straight through the centre of the island, leaving deep tyre marks across the grass. A cyclist who is circumnavigating the roundabout dismounts and lifts his bike over the metal railings onto the footpath.
"My, we are tense," says Carole. "I think you need something to relax you, Tom. And I think I know just the thing."
***
Inside his secret litte attic room Geoffrey removed his wet coat and placed it carefully on a hanger which he put on the back of the door. He pushed his briefcase into the corner and removed his shoes.
He took off his suit jacket and put it onto a second hanger. He removed his tie and hung it on the same hanger as his jacket.
The room was small, but adequate for it's purpose. Cosy rather than cramped, but, above all, private. He caught his reflection in the mirror and smiled in anticipation.
He finished undressing with quiet efficiency. Always taking care to fold each discarded garment before placing it in a neat pile or on a hanger as appropriate.
He tried to avoid seeing himself in the mirror when he was completely undressed. Tried not to see the soft white flesh of his buttocks. Tried not to notice the thick waist.
He pulled open the top drawer of the chest and surveyed the contents.
***
I have to do something about my throat. The tickle from the dryness is unbearable. Carole is stroking my thigh as I drive. I try to avoid changing gear as much as possible and keep my knees tightly clenched together. The engine screams as we hurtle on in first gear.
There is a parade of shops ahead. It looks strangely familiar as I pull into the small layby. "Throat pastilles," I croak at Carole, pointing at my neck as I fall out of the car and run across to the shop.
Inside the shop I suffer a strong sense of deja vu. I think the scent of curry may have something to do with it.
"Most inclement weather for the time of year, sir, I am thinking." The shopkeeper's voice falters as he says the words. "You!" he says.
"Bosoms," I say.
"I am not having bosoms, sir," says the man. "And neither is my wife."
"On the shelf. Bosoms. They follow you around like eyes. I was here before."
"I am calling the police again, sir, if you are not leaving at once."
For a moment I wonder if that might not be preferable. Perhaps I should just sit down on the floor and wait for the police to come.
"Please to leave my shop at once, sir. I am not wanting your custom, thankyou."
I turn to go. The shopkeeper senses an easy victory and, in a sudden show of bravura, advances from behind his counter with a broom.
"Sorry to trouble you," I mumble as I open the door to go out. "Just had a bit of a tickle that was all."
To my surprise he grabs a magazine off the top shelf and thrusts it in my hand. "Now please to go away, sir. You can look at these bosoms in the privacy of your own home, but do not come here again bothering my wife. She is not for sale."
He pushes me out the door, and I hear a bolt shoot behind me. This is bizarre. I walk across to the car and climb in. Carole takes the magazine from me as I restart the engine.
"Well, well, Tom. Things are beginning to look up."
She thumbs through the magazine as we drive. It has the benefit of occupying both her hands, but I have a bad feeling about this.
CHAPTER 24
Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.
I think about sex a lot. Everybody does. About sixty percent of the time. It's just that they don't admit it. Not even to themselves sometimes. Oh, I forgot. I already told you that once.
I'm thinking about sex now. Sitting in Carole's car. Driving to Carole's house. In the pouring rain. With Carole sitting beside me looking at carelessly dressed women. Women whose brassieres have mysteriously shucked their contents. Miniature knickers that have strangely managed to wrap themselves around their hosts in such a way as to perform no useful function and to conceal absolutely nothing. Women who for no apparent reason have decided to play hunt the thimble with no clothes on. At least I can think of no other reason why they would be bending over peering down the back of the sofa while a wandering photographer takes pictures of their backsides.
Carole thumbs through the magazine as I drive. I catch glimpses of pneumatic breasts and endless thighs out of the corner of my eye. She turns the magazine on it's side to examine the centre spread. Now I can see why it's called a centre spread! The rain is lashing down. Somehow I manage to keep on the correct side of the road despite the distractions.
I don't know what I'm doing here. My life seems to be totally out of control recently. I think the reason might be sex.
Listen. We will get back to the story soon. I promise you.
It's just that I'm having a bit of trouble hanging on right at this moment. I haven't forgotten about Geoffrey. He's quite happy on his own for a while. He can manage without us for now.
Look. Just skip a few pages if you like. You won't miss much.
My clothes are soaking. My white flannels have glued themselves to my legs. Water is dripping from my head and running gently down my back. Carole's dress is soaking too. It clings to her body like a second skin. The material has gone quite transparent in places. She seems not to notice.
Sex is at the root of everything. It's the only reason we're here. We only exist to pass our genes on to the next generation. After that we're just walking donuts. And nature has contrived all sorts of tricks to make sure we keep to the job in hand. We're programmed to reproduce. We can't help ourselves.
We're loaded with erogenous zones, and pheromones, and drives and juices. Nature has made sex pleasurable. Why else would anyone do it? If it was just plumbing and moisture then you might as well go and install a new kitchen sink for kicks.
"By heck. I feel randy tonight. What I couldn't do to a thermostatic shower unit."
"Look over there. There by the bar. No, not there. Behind the girl with the big knockers. Just get a look at the shine on that mixer tap."
No. Nature has made sure that you get an itch that won't go away just by scratching it. A little itch that makes certain you'll be prepared to labour for hours just to indulge in five minutes moisture and plumbing. And you think you've done it because it felt good. Or worse. You think you did it to make someone else feel good. But all the time it was just those genes fighting to pass themselves on to the next generation.
Hey! I think this is a story about sex. I thought I was trying to murder my wife and all the time I'm just writing a dirty book.
Hey! If I'm writing a dirty book, what are you reading?
I've got to get a grip on myself. I haven't felt in command recently. Things keep happening to me. It never used to be this way. I used to be happy. I think Gail was happy too, but we lost it somewhere.
And what about Carole? What is she looking for? The involuntary shiver runs down my spine at the thought. Or was it just another rain drop? She must have sensed the thought, because she reaches across and gives my leg a reassuring squeeze. Reassuring to her that is.
Listen. Did you know that human beings have forty six chromosomes? Twenty two pairs and two odd ones. The odd ones are the sex chromosomes. The chromosomes are made up of long strands of DNA. The DNA is just an enormous list of instructions that tells your body what to grow up into. So that you don't grow up int
o a hippo or a strawberry plant by mistake.
"Hello mum. Just ringing up to let you know that Sue had the baby this morning."
"What?... Oh, about seventy two pounds."
"Yes.... Yes.... Eyes?... Sort of brownish."
"Yes... Yes... It was a little hippo. Ugly little brute. Haven't been able to get close enough to tell whether it's a boy or a girl yet. Doctor said just to throw it some straw and wait till it goes to sleep."
"Yes...Yes... A bit. Well we were hoping for a shetland pony, but as long as he's got all his fingers and toes, or whatever hippos have. That's the main thing."
The individual instructions are called genes. There are genes for everything. A gene for blue eyes. A gene for big ears. A gene for bulbous noses. Everyone has a different mixture, that's why we all look different. When we reproduce, the baby gets a mixture of genes from it's mother and it's father. Half from each. That's why it looks a bit like both of them.
I just thought you'd like to know.
Nature invented sex just so we could mix our genes up. That's all.
I think Carole wants to mix her genes up with mine. I should be flattered, she's a very attractive lady. But she scares me.
I'm also getting a very tight feeling under my arms. Either I'm having a heart attack or this jacket is shrinking. I glance down and see that the buttons are pulled tight across my chest. It must be shrinking. And the colours seem to be running too. An orange yellow tide mark is creeping from the bottom of the jacket along my pants. I think I've just ruined my last jacket. Perhaps this is a story about a man who doesn't own a decent jacket? And now the car windows are beginning to steam up.
Some living things don't bother to mix their genes up. Amoebas and viruses and things like that. They just chop themselves in two when they want to reproduce. Where's the fun in that I'd like to know?
And some things have sex without even noticing. They just spray their genes around and leave them to find their own way. Sea urchins for example. Hard to imagine a sea urchin getting much fun from sex. A quick quiver of your spines, spray fifty billion sex cells into the sea and then get your head back down to doing whatever it is that sea urchins do when they aren't having fun.
"Have a good day today, dear?"
"Yes. I sprayed fifty billion sex cells into the sea. Quite exciting for a second or two."