a sixteenth story...'Writer's Block'

I cut the engine and listen to the cooling fan whir away.  I wonder what Amy will think of her Dad arriving to pick her up in his 911 and then decide not to worry about it.  There are fairy lights in the hedges surrounding the house and Chinese lanterns illuminating the gravel driveway.  I want a cigarette badly but remember what I promised my wife.  Cutting down.  Part of the whole ‘must-do-better’ routine.  ‘I hate routines’ I think aloud.  Like any anxious parent I’ve turned up early so I put my Kenny Rogers CD on the car stereo.  He’s singing: ‘you decorated my life’.  I’m tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. 

After a few minutes I see Amy emerge from the house.  I open the drivers door and stand and wait.  She’s with her friend Joanna.  She sees me and comes over, smiling.  ‘Hello Daddy!’ She throws her arms around me.  ‘Is it okay if we take Joanna home too?’  Joanna is fifteen but could easily pass for an eighteen year old.  She’s wearing frightfully tight denim hotpants, is tall, blonde and leggy with carolina blue eyes.  ‘Sure honey’ I say, and I ask Joanna where she lives. Turns out we have to take quite a detour to get to her house.  She lives in one of the big pink lakeshore villas.  I ask her what her father does, she blushes and says she’s not really sure.  Amy wants me to put on some music.  Over my shoulder I hand her a bunch of CD’s from the glove compartment.  ‘Corr, Daddy, The Eagles!  They’re like how old?’  The girls both start giggling.  In the end we listen to the radio instead.  In between the garage pop the disc jockey talks incessantly.  I think: he must have done several lines.  Amy and Joanna aren’t paying attention anyway, instead they’re whispering animatedly about some boy or other.  It crosses my mind whether Amy has a boyfriend.  Or if Joanna’s still a virgin.

Saturday mornings are almost my favourite time of the week.  I usually don’t have a hangover and gorge myself on blueberry pancakes.  My wife, nevertheless, cannot ever keep still and today she is fretting about James’ sleepover.  I’m glad the maid has volunteered herself to help out, as I’m sitting comfortably in my dressing gown, feet on the coffee table, idly reading the newspapers.  Amy enters the breakfast room in her pyjama bottoms and bra.  She’s filling out.  In a very attractive way.  I feel the satisfaction of a proud father.  She comes and sits on the couch opposite me with a Nespresso and plays with her hair.  I ask her what plans she has for today but her mobile phone rings and she starts chatting with another of her girlfriends.  I go back to the papers.  The article I come to reads: Anger: How much is too much? But I’m more interested in finding the letters page.

At the Tennis Club I partner with Susan for the fourth time.  I enjoy flirting with her but we’re both happily married.  And if anything she’s better than I am at Tennis, although, I’ve only started playing recently.  My wife thought it would be a good antidote to sitting at home with a bottle of Macallan on the go.  We argued until we were blue in the face but on reflection she probably has a point.  Susan bounces a ball over to me.  This afternoon our opponents are a young professional couple, Frank and Virginia.  They are both effortlessly stylish as well as patently materialistic.  I don’t get the impression they really care for each other at all.  Frank is the kind of guy who‘d wear his sunglasses in the shower.  Anyhow, they beat us three sets to love.  In total I think Susan and I manage to win only two games, and one of those was because of Virginia’s double faults (taken with much chagrin by Frank).  In the bar later I enjoy a G&T and Susan has Prosecco.  ‘How’s your book getting along?’ she asks.  It’s a sore point of issue with my wife yet I’m quite happy to tell Susan it’s going nowhere.  ‘I think I’ve got writers block’ I say.

When I get back from the Tennis Club, I am reminded to take the dog for a walk.  He’s sitting out on the  terrace panting in the heat.  I put his lead on and give it a good tug.  Reluctantly he pads after me.  We walk along past the Pentecostal Church and the parade to the park.  My legs are sore and stiff from the game earlier so I head for the Japanese pavilion.  I buy a Diet Coke and surreptitiously watch a young tan couple necking on a bench in the corner.  It’s calm and quiet except for the drone of an aeroplane overhead.  I wonder why I haven’t tried writing here before now.  Then my mobile phone rings.  It’s my agent.  I let it go to answer phone - not on a Saturday.

My life is really very urbane.  Week days used to be an amphetamine fuelled rush, weekends used to pass in an alcoholic haze.  But now I have a routine.  Predictable and comforting.  All thanks to my wife.  I realise I owe her a great deal.  For accepting me back into the family, our family, after years of ego mania, fast cars, parties, illicit affairs, and of course, drugs and alcohol.  I’m never going to be able to forego a glass of wine or a whiskey but I am completely clean of drugs, except for a little cocaine at the kind of upper middle class parties we are invited to and very occasionally show up at.  And I do write about the whole scene.  My agent keeps telling me of late to ‘write about what you know’. 

This evening, we are at our neighbours for dinner.  The Clerks are a nice enough couple, even if they are typically bland.  Keith works for IBM or something – I can never remember exactly – and Lynette is the archetypal suburban housewife.  Throughout the meal conversation revolves around our kids.  My wife talks about Amy becoming a cheer-leader at school, and James’ great end of year test scores.  Lynette, backed up by Keith, talk about their concerns for their oldest, Aidan.  ‘He’s just drifting through life and we can’t get through to him’, Lynette twitters.  ‘Yes’ says Keith.  ‘And he doesn’t seem to be interested in girls.  Keith thinks he’s very passive’. ’Yes’ says Keith again, ‘it wasn’t like that in our day, was it?’, he directs this statement-cum-question at me.  I wonder if Keith even kissed a girl before he turned thirty but instead pretend to smile knowingly.  Lynette’s keen to discover what mischief I got up to, but I can tell my wife isn’t so enthused and I make some general remarks about the nineteen seventies.

Once dinner has been cleared away Keith and I sit out in Martine garden chairs and have a little glass of port.  Keith’s asking if I think it’s true that everyone has a novel in them.  I reply that I don’t know.  He goes on to tell me about an idea for a book he’s been contemplating for a long time.  It has a Christian theme and is about ‘the enemy within’. ‘It’s about a man battling against his inner demons and temptation’ Keith elaborates.  I didn’t know Keith was a believer but for once it makes sense.  He wants to show me the outline he’s typed up on his word processor so I change the subject.  ‘Do you like it here?’ I wonder.  ‘What, living here, you mean?’ ‘Yes’ I say.  ‘Couldn’t ask for anything more’ Keith replies.  I look him in the eye and can’t decide whether he really means it.  Nevertheless, ambition can creep as well as soar.

Later my wife and I are trying to make love but she stops after a few minutes.  She says she’s too tired.  I say ‘OK’.  She falls asleep quietly beside me, her head resting on her outstretched arm.  I lie awake for a while and then put my dressing gown on and go and wait up for Amy.  But when it begins to get light I return to bed.  My wife is still in exactly the same position.  As silently as I can go through my bedside table drawers in the hope I’ve some Tremazepam left but since the routine began I’ve only been using herbal sleeping tablets.  In the early gloom I try and study the label.  It says: ‘Kalms Sleep is not known to be habit forming and will promote sleep without leaving you feeling drowsy the next day’.  I swallow a couple without any water and wait.

Amy arrives next morning looking exhausted.  My wife is angry with me because I hadn’t got around to  mentioning that Amy had not come back from her party during the night.  ‘You were supposed to wait up for her’. ‘I did!’ I protest.  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me first thing this morning’.  I finish my coffee.  ‘Amy’s responsible’ I say.  ‘Amy is fifteen’ my wife retorts ‘I don’t care what you were doing at that age, but Amy is my daughter as well as yours’.  I look over at Amy for help but she’s curled up on the sofa watching cartoons.  Eventually I apologise and my wife gets the four by four and goes to collect James from his sleepover.  I ask Amy if she had a good time.  She doesn’t hear me at first.  ‘Did you have fun, honey?’ I enquire again.  There’s a pause.  ‘Is Mum angry with me?’  she replies innocently.  ‘No, honey, I think she’s more angry at me’ I say and head upstairs to put on some sensible clothes.

My agent phones again when I’m in the shower and this time I decide it might be worth calling him back.  ‘William, good of you to telephone, and sorry for interrupting your Sunday’.  ‘No problem’ I say ‘What’s up?’  ‘I’ve some great news for you!’ ‘Oh’.  I’m surprised, I thought he was going to pester me about the meagre progress I’ve made in the last three months once again.  ‘We’ve got a film production company interested in your last book’.  He waits expectantly for my reaction.  I try and sound enthusiastic.  My debut, by far and away the most successful thing I’ve ever done, was turned into a movie.  I was invited to the premiere and in spite of my addled state I was unhappy with everything the producers had left out and how the main character was turned into some kind of moralist played by a very straight Matthew Broderick.  I want to know if this time I’ll need to do much publicity.  My agent says if we - by which he means he and I and the publishers - sign the deal there’ll be a chat show or two to do.  ‘Have they cast anyone, yet?’  I wonder.  ‘No, but Topher Grace is in the frame’.  I don’t know who he is. ‘He’s the guy in Win a date with Tad Hamilton’’ my agent explains. ‘I see’ I say still without any real idea.

‘Have you seen Win a date with Tad Hamilton’ I ask Amy.  We’re sitting outside in the shade by the infinity pool having a late lunch.  ‘God, Dad.  That movie sucks’.  ‘Did you like it?’  She seems to think I’ve seen it.  I tell her I haven’t and that the main actor in it might be in the film of my last book.  ‘They could do better than that, couldn’t they Dad?’  Amy says undecidedly.  I say I don’t know and ask her to pass the caesar salad dressing.   Unbeknown to my wife, Amy has in fact read everything I’ve published.   In a strange way I feel closer to her than almost anyone though I was hardly around for the first thirteen years of her life, and when I was, I wasn’t sober or even noticeably aware of her existence.  Yet I see something of me in her.  I’m curious about why she didn’t come home until this morning but I’m not sure if it’s my business.

My wife is making a stir fry for dinner.  I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen because it’s cool.  The casement is open but there isn’t a breeze.  I ask my wife what her plans are for the coming week.  She smiles and implies she’s already told me several times.  I am reminded she is going to the hairdressers, Monday, working her part time shift at the Spa, Tuesday and we’re having a little soiree for Amy’s friends, Wednesday. And she’s worried Amy’s friend Joanna will bring her new boyfriend.  ‘I’ve heard he’s nineteen.  Goodness knows what children get up to at that age’.  ‘Goodness knows’,  I repeat.  I’m thinking of Joanna, those carolina blue eyes, but I’m awoken from my reverie by James.  It’s his bedtime.  My wife asks if I’ll read him a story. 

I haven’t really studied James’ room before, and now, sitting on the edge of his bed while he brushes

his teeth in the bathroom next door, I take it in.  I’m relieved to see he’s got the Thunderbirds poster I bought him up on his wall, alongside a framed portrait of Woody from Toy Story.  Although he doesn’t seem to have many toys, only a couple of Teddys.  He’s got three games consoles and a blu-ray Dvd instead.  ‘What do you me want to read?  I ask when he comes in.   He chooses Oh, The Places You’ll Go  by Dr Seuss. ‘With your head full of brains, and your shoes full of feet, you’ll be too smart to go down any not-so-good street’.

It’s Monday morning.  I am trying to write but my imagination has stalled.  The Microsoft logo moving

diagonally across my computer screen.  I go into the kitchen and make another cup of coffee.  The maid is cleaning out the oven.  Back in my study I browse the internet for a while, search ebay for vinyl.  Join the five bidders for Changes One by David Bowie from the RCA years.  I also google my last book and read some reader reviews.  Most are positive but there’s one from leeboywonder that states: ‘he truly appears an author clean out of ideas - rich, famous, lauded and thoroughly complacent’.  I sip my coffee and vaguely contemplate his remarks, opening up my word document at the same time.  I start typing only to stop after a few contrived lines.  My wife sends me a message asking if I want her to buy anymore essiac tea. 

Of late I’ve made it part of my new routine to go and pick the kids up from school.  Today it’s a welcome break from work.  I take the four by four.  It’s only a drive of a mile and a half but in this day and age my wife is adamant that children should not be allowed to walk home on their own.  When I get there I try and avoid the gossiping mothers who only want to talk to me about the latest book they’re reading and sit in the car.  James is out quickly, jumps in the backseat and starts playing on his Gameboy.  Gazing out the drivers window I am surprised to see Susan, my tennis partner, appear, waiting at the school gates.  I hoot my horn and she looks over and recognises me.  ‘Hey, how are you?’ she smiles after we’ve brushed cheeks.  ‘Not bad’ I say.  ‘You’re a parent here, then? How come I never knew?’ Turns out she’s a daughter in James’ year, not getting along very well - it’s almost refreshing to hear this form a Summerdale parent.  ‘Tennis again, Thursday evening?’ I ask.  But she can’t.  She’s going for dinner with her husband.  ‘Oh’ I say, a little deflated.  ‘You’re only playing to appease your wife though, aren’t you?’ she teases.

‘Amy.  We cannot have Joanna’s boyfriend over as well on Wednesday.  I think he’s too old, honey’.  ‘C’mon, Mum!’ Amy looks at me for help.  ‘No darling.  I don’t think he’ll feel comfortable with all you young girls and I won’t have him smoking in the house’ my wife continues.  ‘But what about Dad?’ Amy retorts ‘Doesn’t he smoke in the house?’.  ‘What your father does is none of your business, Amy’.  But Amy’s persistent, wants to know why Joanna’s boyfriend, who I gather is called Sheridan, won’t feel comfortable with a  bunch of young girls.  I’m thinking the same thing but stay out of the conversation.  ‘Listen Amy’ says my wife sharply, straightening up, ‘we’ve gone to a lot of effort to host your friends and I think it’s only fair if you allow us a degree of control’.  ‘Isn’t that fair?’  She’s looking at me now.  Duty bound I tell Amy to obey her mother.  Amy scowls.  ‘There.  I’m sure it will be fun without him,’ my wife settles the matter.

On Wednesday, of course, Sheridan turns up all the same.  I wonder if Amy ever told Joanna that he couldn’t come and decide she did not.  My wife is clearly vexed by Sheridan’s presence, does a poor attempt at hiding it.  Although, I find him strangely fascinating.  He’s tall and muscular, wearing black jeans with a black and white checked lumberjack shirt.  His eyes are pale blue and his face cracks into a wicked grin when he’s listening to the girls chattering away.  Later he follows me out onto the veranda and we sit in silence on the relaxers above the swimming pool.  After a while he asks if I smoke.  I say I do.  ‘Hash?’ he asks.  I hesitate briefly, thinking of my wife.  ‘Yes’ I reply.  ‘Would you like a joint?’.  ‘Yeah, great, thanks’.  While he’s rolling he tells me he’s read my books.  ‘Did you enjoy them?’ ‘Yes, I don’t read much though’ he mumbles.  I tell him how my last book is about to be made into a film with Topher Grace in the lead role.  We laugh.  He lets me have the first toke.  I inhale deeply and can hear one of the girls has put on my B-52’s record – there’s a lot of giggling.  ‘Nice’ I say and take another drag, ‘so where do you get this stuff?’  Sheridan smiles.  ‘I can fix you up, no problem’ he says.  ‘Really?’.  ‘Yes’.  ‘Can I, er, have your number then?’ I venture.  ‘Yes’.  And he dictates it to me.

When Sheridan and the girls go it’s around midnight.  My wife heads upstairs leaving me to do the clearing up.  Amy hangs about and does some too.  ‘Dad’ she whispers as I’m mopping up some wine stains off the glass table in the lounge, ‘you smell of weed’.  I tell her strictly and under no circumstances to tell her mother.  ‘It’s okay’ she says, ‘you know I won’t’.  I feel a flood of gratitude tempered by the fact I’m pretty sure my wife already knows.  To avoid any confrontation after I’ve said ‘goodnight’ to Amy I pour myself some left over wine and fall into an armchair.  Somehow I get to thinking about Susan. 

At breakfast early the next day I see I’ve a missed call from last night.  It’s actually  from my old author pal Michael Birkel.  I listen to his message.  He’s in town on Friday and wants to meet up for dinner and or drinks.  I try calling him but his cell phone is switched off.  I suggest drinks and possibly dinner at Le Bouchon, classy enough without being entirely pretentious.  It’s also Zagat rated but really that’s neither here nor there.  My wife comes in dressed for work at the Spa.  I mention Michael’s visit.  She doesn’t say anything and goes over to the sink and washes her coffee mug.  I think: perhaps she’s still angry about last night.  I try to put my arms around her waist but she pushes my hands away.  ‘What is it, darling?’ I ask in my most caring voice.  She sighs.  I touch her hair but she moves to one side and puts her coffee mug in the drying rack. ‘Will you collect the children from school today, please?’ she says flatly. ‘Of course’.  ‘I’ll be back at seven’ she says, and walks out without saying ‘goodbye’. 

In a break with the morning routine I decide to take my Porsche for a drive.  I’m not quite sure what to do about the dog as the maid isn’t too keen on him so I choose to lock him in the utility room before remembering the maid is bound to go in there.  In the end I take him with me, put him on the back seat.  He’s wagging his tail.  As I pull onto the main road I play some Steppenwolf and climb up the flyover above the freeway, then open the sunroof and hit fifth gear, heading out toward the Island.  The dog starts barking excitedly and it adds to my exhilaration as I eat up the ground in the fast lane.

Stationed in front of my computer again, I suddenly find it easier to write.  I’ve a bag of kettle chips beside me and a can of lager I bought on the return home.  I manage a thousand words effortlessly, then make a table reservation for Michael and I  tomorrow night, before posting another thousand in under an hour.  At lunchtime I ignore the walnut salad my wife prepared and ask the maid if she’ll get me some more chips and another lager on her daily run to the shops.  While she’s out I dispose of the walnut salad in the garden compost bins outside.  I wash up the plastic container and take care to wash up fork too.   The maid brings back two bottles of Jamaican Stout as well as the kettle chips.  She grins toothily when she sees how happy I am and I go and type some more.  Although I finish the stout quickly I keep working.  I hardly notice the time moving towards 3pm, and when I do, I leap in the four by four and go to get the kids.  Forgetting the beers I’ve consumed.

On the way to school I’m planning how the story will unfold.  I need to avoid the main characters revealing too much of themselves.  A large part of the book is intended to be about consumerism, social convention and studied indifference; insincerity, infidelity and bad dialogue.  The burgeoning cult of young male Eunuch.  Aka Metro-sexual.  As well as all the usual vices: cocaine, hash and alcohol.  Part of the time you have to write about the things you know.

At the school gates I spot Susan again.  I park the car sloppily and make my way over to her.  She looks a little downcast but brightens up when she sees me.  ‘Hi.  Have you had a productive day?’.  I tell her I have for once.  ‘It’s a shame we can’t play tennis this evening’ she continues.  ‘Between you and I the couple we’re dining with are unimaginably dull!’.  My life!’ she sighs.  ‘I’ve been there’ I laugh.  ‘Where are you going anyhow?’  Susan tells me it’s a new opening.  Tom Hynes.  She asks what I’m up to this evening.  ‘Me?  Nothing much.  Except trying to avoid the wrath of my wife’  I say only half joking.  Susan smiles again.  ‘By the way.  How is the new routine going?’  I tell her it’s going OK. ‘Isn’t it hard though?’ she’s looking at me questioningly.  ‘Well, um, at times’ I admit.  Then she touches my shoulder.  ‘I meant to ask actually.  We’re having a party for Lea on Saturday if you want to bring James along?’  I feel a rush of excitement.  ‘Sure, he’d love to come’ I reply.

When I get home with the kids, Amy’s up to her room talking on the phone and James is playing on his games console.  I’m slightly anxious about the return of my wife and decide to retreat to my study and at least give the impression I’m writing.  I fix a lime and soda first, then try and pick up the story from where I left off earlier in the afternoon but find it hard going again.  Instead I sketch out a plan on a piece of graph paper I find in the desk drawers.  This is often a futile exercise since I change my mind so regularly, however, it passes the time – although when at last I hear my wife come in I’ve been doodling for something like an hour.  I can hear her asking James in the living room where his father is.  I re-open my word document and make it seem as if I’ve paused mid-sentence.  My wife opens the door to the study and puts her head in.  ‘We need to have a talk’ she says.  ‘Ok, honey, but I’m working at the moment’.  ‘Well, when you’ve finished’.  ‘Ok’ I say again.  She closes the door without another word. 

‘So you’re having dinner with Michael Birkel tomorrow evening?’  my wife asks.  So far she hasn’t mentioned my little digression last night.  ‘Yes.  We haven’t seen each other in almost two years’  I say.  ‘I’m sure he’s changed too’ I add feebly.  ‘Changed too?  Have you changed, William?’  My wife only calls me William when she’s angry with me.  I hold her at arms length and look at her sincerely.  ‘Yes’.  ‘It’s so easy for you to say that’ she replies.  ‘Trust me’.  ‘Do I have a choice?’ she asks.  I choose not to ignore this.  ‘I’m doing alright aren’t I?’  ‘You’re doing alright’.  ‘OK’ I sigh, thinking the worst is over.  My wife turns away and gazes out the kitchen window.  After a while she speaks again:  ‘I know you took marijuana with that boy, Sheridan, last night’.  There’s pain in her voice.  Part of me can recognise I’ve let her down, but the other part just doesn’t seem to care enough.  ‘You can’t expect me to be perfect all the time?’  I protest meekly.  ‘What do you mean, William? My wife turns around and I see there’s going to be tears.  ‘For thirteen years of our married life you were anything but perfect, don’t you owe me anything?  Your children anything?’  I tell her I think she’s over-reacting a little.  ‘I care about you,  William.  You may not care about yourself.  But I worry’, and she stalks out of the kitchen.

My wife is out again at a coffee morning for parents.  She didn’t ask if I wanted to go along.  I didn’t  feel like it anyway.  I’m expanding on the plan I wrote the previous day.  It’s a welcome change from staring blankly at a computer screen, and I find more ideas coming to me.  I also do a bit of research on Naphyrone, a stimulant I have no memory of taking but I’ve heard is increasingly popular among the young professionals I’m writing about.  At some point my agent calls and informs me Topher Grace has been cast in the film and I need to agree to a meeting next week to sign various contracts and release clauses.  I make it clear to him that I’m happy for the film to go ahead but want it known that the book and the film are entirely separate entities.  He sounds a little perplexed although he is glad to hear of my recent progress with the current project.  I mention I’m seeing Michael Birkel for drinks and dinner.  ‘Mind how you go!’ my agent replies.

I’m looking forward to our evening together.  The last time I saw Michael he threw a brick through the window of his ex-wife’s place.  I can’t remember why, or even the exact details.  I don’t think she was in.  There would have been a nice irony if she’d been staying over at her boyfriends.  Anyhow, she filed for divorce against Michael on the grounds that his drug use was wrecking her life.  He was severely into crystal meth at the time.  It might have increased his libido but it also exaggerated his paranoia.  Indeed Michael became so convinced that his wife was having an affair he took to hiding pocket tape recorders in his wife’s bedroom – they had long been sleeping apart – to try and catch her at it.  I couldn’t imagine him finding the time to listen to the playback, perhaps he never did.  He was a really talented writer starting out a little after I did, yet, at the time of his divorce settlement, he hadn’t managed so much as a short story in a five years.  While I got clean he drifted for a while before checking himself into an exclusive rehabilitation clinic somewhere out in the country.  Picking at my walnut salad, I wonder how long he’s been back.

I don’t see Susan when I collect the kids of from school.  It’s always two o’clock on a Friday.  I assume my wife is having lunch in town with friends.  I am pleased to hear James is keen to go to the party tomorrow, while Amy thinks she’ll go to the cinema with friends to see Zac Effron’s new movie.  ‘Is Joana going?’ I ask in an attempt to make conversation and since she’s the only one of Amy’s friends who’s name I can remember.  ‘No, she’s going camping in the woods with Sheridan and his friends’.  ‘Oh’ I say.  I hope Amy won’t tell her mother.  ‘Did you practice your cheer leading today?’  I continue.  Amy says the teacher was ill so they watched a work out video.  ‘I’m not sure I want to do it anyway, Dad’.  I ask her what she would do instead.  ‘I’d like to be a singer’ comes the reply.  ‘Like Alicia Keys?’  ‘No.  More like Beyonce’.  ‘She’s quite fierce isn’t she?’.  ‘She’s beautiful’ is Amy’s response.

Before I go out to meet Michael my wife and I share a moment.  Her attitude seems to have softened over the course of the day, and I think she accepts my apology for Wednesday.  As I’m searching for the keys to my 911 she kisses me and holds me tight saying ‘be good tonight’.  I say I will. 

The bar at Le Bouchon is lively.  I contemplate wearing my tea shades in case someone should recognise me yet there never seems to be a time or place for them.  Michael’s delayed so I order a beer.  There are a group of art students in one corner, dressed up to dress down, who might have identified me but they’re too cool to acknowledge it.  I drink a long draught and Michael shows up.  After all the pleasantries have been gone through I order him a whiskey straight.  ‘I seem to have developed an intolerance for Beer’ he says.  His voice sounds lived in.  It’s not surprising.  ‘Heard you were writing another book?’ he asks while the barman tries to find the right bottle.  I tell him roughly what I think it’s about.  ‘Sounds familiar’.  ‘Well, you know what they say’ I reply.  ‘Yes, indeed’.  His whiskey has arrived.  ‘Evan Williams’ he says, holding it up to the light.  ‘I like the cheap and simple ones’. We toast and agree it’s good to see each other again. 

Michael’s been out of rehab for almost nine months.  ‘I wasn’t in for long.  You can kick a habit in four days’ he boasts.  I avoid asking about his ex-wife and try to find out what else he’s been doing.  ‘High grade coke, mostly’.  We laugh.  And then he asks, ‘do you remember much of your twenties or thirties?’.  I say some of it.  ‘I can’t’ he goes on ‘and I feel that’s a blessing’.  We start to reminisce about the brick throwing incident.  The police gave Michael a restraining order.  As well as our holidays in the South of France.  The women, the sun drenched beaches, the parties in the hills above Cannes, the hot steam nights, the time I crashed my Corvette and spent a week in hospital.  ‘Do you recall taking Honey Slides?’ I wonder in the middle of all this.  ‘Oh, yeah!  Michael grins, ‘what was the recipe again?’  I think for a few seconds.  Honey Slides were a concoction of Honey and grass.  You would dry fry the grass in a pan until it turned brown and wisps of smoke began to appear.  Then you would heat the honey in another pan before adding the fried grass.  When you ate the mixture it just slid down your throat.  ‘Gotta try that again!’ Michael says enthusiastically.  I tell him about the trouble I got into on Wednesday.  He tells me he always thought my wife was uptight.  I agree.  ‘I do love her though’ I add. ‘Good.  That’s good’ Michael repeats.

When we’ve each had a three or four drinks and nibbled at some tapas we decide we want to keep going.  Michael’s keen to go to a place called Drink Junction but I veto his idea as my wife would not be happy if she discovered I’d been there.  Nevertheless, he’s in a persuasive mood and I’m enjoying myself immensely so we opt for the Loft, a trendy yuppie bar a few blocks down.  When we get inside it’s crowded and loud.  They refuse to serve us draught beer.  Michael has some choice words with the barman and then orders another whiskey.  I have a Corona.  ‘That’s cheap Mexican lager you’re drinking’ he says.  I shrug.  We discuss James and Amy for a moment and then the talk reverts back to Wednesday.  ‘This Sheridan guy’, Michael is saying, ‘sounds like he deals’.  I say he does and mention that he said he could fix me up.  ‘In fact I’ve got his number’ I blurt out and realise I must be drunk.  ‘Want to give him a call?’ Michael says casually, although I suspect I know exactly what’s on his mind.  ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea’ I say. ‘You think your wife will find out?’ he’s grinning mischievously.  ‘Come on, Michael, you don’t understand’ I protest.  ‘Okay, okay.  But you are scared of her, right?  I pick up a handful of peanuts.  Michael’s still grinning.  ‘Why don’t you call him?’ I say.  ‘Okay!’ Michael exclaims emphatically.  ‘Okay’ I repeat.  ‘So give me your phone!’ I reach into my jean pocket. ‘I only want some weed, Michael’. ‘Righto’ he says.  ‘Only a little weed for a quick smoke back at your hotel’ I re-emphasise.  Michael puts out his hand for my phone.  But I don’t give it to him right away.  ‘None of that stuff that wipes your memory either’.  ‘Sure’ says Michael, ‘a little weed for you, something a bit stronger for me’.  ‘Right?’ ‘Okay!’ ‘Right’.  And I give him my phone.  ‘You’ll be fine’ he winks and makes his way out onto the terrace to get a signal.  I remember what my agent said: ‘mind how you go’.

The sun is beaming through the bedroom window.  It hurts my eyes.  I turn over and find I’ve blood on my pillow.  Seems to have come from my nose.  I haul myself into a sitting position and my head throbs.  I stagger into the ensuite bathroom, fill a cup of water and drink.  Looking at my reflection I can see my pupils have narrowed to the size of pin holes.  I’ve a cut under my left eye.  I quaff some more water and go back into the bedroom.  My trousers are in a pile on the floor.  There’s a folded up piece of paper beside them.  I woozily pick it up.  It’s an eye-watering bar tab.  I groan.

Once I’ve cleaned my nose, put my clothes in the laundry basket, and had another cup of water I decide to head downstairs.  On the landing I see one of the giant pot plants has disappeared.  James is in his room playing computer games.  No one is in the kitchen, although the papers have been delivered.  I squint at the small print but the concentration required for reading causes too much pain.  From one of the downstairs bathrooms I wet a flannel, drape it on my forehead and lie on the couch in the living room.  Blueberry pancakes are not high on my agenda. 

A little later I begin to feel more alive and find my phone on the breakfast bar.  I’ve three messages.  Two are from Susan.  I open the first.  It reads: ‘just watching TV and thinking of you actually.  What you up to? x’.  The second simply says:  ‘Sounds fun!  See you tomorrow. XX’.  I’m anxious about the whereabouts of my wife.  I open the third message.  It’s from Sheridan.  I swear under my breath.  No idea what happened after The Loft, and while I’m struggling to recall the sequence of events my wife appears.  She looks at me and it makes me uncomfortable.  I mouth the words ‘good morning’ but nothing comes out.  She collects some washing from the tumble dryer and bundles it into a basket.   ‘I think you’d better stay at home this afternoon, William’ she says. ‘Um, what?’ I’m playing dumb. ‘You’re fucked.  Stay at home’ she repeats.  It’s an order.  ‘No, no. I’m okay honey’.  ‘No you’re not’.  I try to seem with it and stop slouching.  ‘I’m alright’. But she pays no attention.  ‘I’m just glad James didn’t see you in the state you were in earlier this morning’.  ‘This morning?’ I rub my chin.  ‘This morning.  Yes.  I suppose you’ve noticed the potted orchid on the landing isn’t there anymore?’.  ‘Um’.  My dialogue is stuck.  ‘Go and have a shower and sober up!’ she snaps and disappears into the utility room.

Despite her hostility towards me, my wife and I both go to Susan’s.  Whether she likes it or not I am the one that received the invite.  In the car on the way there I sit in the passenger seat and speculate on the meaning of ‘Xs’ in text messages.

Susan’s house is more like a white clapboard mansion.  There are coloured balloons on the gatepost and a marquee on the manicured lawn out front.  We are not the first to arrive.  My wife seems to know a lot of the parents, even their children.  I fall into conversation with one of the Dads about his twin boys.  Then his partner wants to know if I’ve read Leanne Banks, and when I say I haven’t, whether or not I think Harry Potter’s magic is evil and unchristian.  Thankfully the arrival of the canapés provides a new line of conversation.  Although I hear my wife explaining her walnut salad recipe and cringe.

‘Hullo You’.  Susan finally appears beside me with a plate of cocktail sausages.  ’Hey!’ I say and kiss her on the cheek.  ’Having fun?’ she asks.  ’Yeah!’ I lie, ’great house by the way’.  ’Well, I should imagine yours is bigger’ Susan winks.  I don’t deny that it isn’t and make a bad joke about the time it takes to clean the windows.  Susan laughs all the same.  ’Need a hand with anything?’  I ask.  Susan says her husband should be helping somewhere.  ’Will you introduce us?’ I’m kind of intrigued to meet him.  ’Yes.  But he doesn’t approve of your writing’ she warns before breaking into a broad smile. 

Susan’s husband is called Leonard.  Or Len.  He’s in stocks and shares.  ’Not murders and executions’ I quip, but he doesn’t get it.  He’s a serious man.  Wearing a pointy red party hat, holding a bowl of Quavers.  I tell him he has a nice house.  He regales me with the details of the investment that made it possible.  ’You like it here?’ I ask him, feeling like I already know his answer.  ’‘Why I couldn’t ask for anything more’ Len replies.  ’I’ve a beautiful wife, a smart kid and all this’, he gestures with his free hand.  It strikes me how I’m always the only one asking this question at these sorts of events.  ’Have you met my wife?’ Len continues.  I decide not to tell him I’m her tennis partner in case what Susan said about him not liking my writing is true and instead say we know each other from school coffee mornings.  I am being liberal with the truth.  My wife joins us on cue.  I introduce her and excuse myself, fairly confident she’ll get along with him.

James is kicking a football around, ice cream in hand by the marquee, but I head into the house.  He seems happy enough.  In the kitchen-breakfast bar there are a couple of Mums helping with washing up, and Susan.  ’I’ve come for a beer’ I pretend.  ’Do you guys need a hand?’.  ’How kind’ says one of the Mums.  Susan hands me a cold beer and a tea towel but there are only a few items that still need washing up. ’Why don’t you let me show you around the house?’ she asks.  I say I’d like it and follow her into the lounge.  There’s a seventy-two inch plasma screen surrounded by three brown leather sofas.  A glass table with a stash of magazines on.  ’You like reading?’ I say, picking up a copy of Cosmopolitan with Elizabeth Taylor on the front.  Susan laughs.  ’That’s an old issue - don’t know why I hang onto them.  I’ve told you what I’m reading at the moment anyhow, remember?’  I look blank.  ’You’.  ’Oh yes’ I reply and a feeling of excitement rises inside me.  We go on into Len’s study, the walls lined with college photos.  Len with his Harvard class, Len with the athletics team, Len in his graduation robes.  And certificates.  Including one which reads Ontario Business Man of the Year and another which reads Young Man of Canada.  ‘So Len’s Canadian?’ I ask dumbly.  Susan says he is.

We look over Len’s stamp collection, and then go back into the hall.  ‘Let’s go upstairs’ Susan suggests. Out the window I see my wife still deep in conversation.  ’What d’you think they’re talking about?’  I wonder as we climb the stairs. ’Who?’ Susan says.  ’Your husband and my wife’ I reply.  ‘I don’t know’.  We’re on the landing.  I can still hear the music from the marquee.  ’Do you like it here?’  I ask.  Susan looks at me curiously. ‘Do you?’.  I’m caught off guard.  ‘Erm, it’s, er, different, quieter'.   ‘Just quieter?’.  ‘Well, the routine’ I begin. ‘Takes getting used to’, Susan finishes my sentence for me.  ‘Yes’ I reply and take a swig.  I’m starting to feel a little awkward, clasp my beer can tighter.  Susan pushes her hair behind her ears.

She shows me into her daughters bedroom: pink walls, and a ceiling painted sky blue with fluffy white Disney clouds.  We stand in silence for a moment.  ’It’s cute’ I remark.  ’Yes’ says Susan ’but she doesn’t often sleep in it’.  ’Oh’, I sip at my beer.  ’She usually sleeps in ours.  She’s scared of the dark’.  ’Is, um, that normal?’  Another stupid question.  But Susan smiles this time and sits on the edge of her daughter’s bed.   ‘It’s comfy’ she says.  ‘I bet’ I reply and put my beer down on the chest of drawers.   But I feel like I’ve upset her somehow.  ‘Look, Susan’ I begin again.  She’s looking at me.  ‘Susan when I asked you if you liked it here, I wasn’t, I didn’t, I was only asking…if you liked the area’.  Susan touches the nape of her neck.  I’m trying to make amends and feeling self conscious about it.  ‘You know to be honest’ Susan says looking at the floor. ‘You know this part of town and so on’ I continue braced for some kind of rebuke .   ‘To be honest’, she says again and there’s another pause, ‘To be honest I don’t like it here’.  I am a little taken aback.  ‘Really?. ‘You want to move?’.  Susan sighs ‘No, not exactly’.  I’m about to tell her how I’m feeling like I need a change of scene but Susan speaks again.  ‘It’s my husband’. ‘Len?’ ‘Yes.  What about him?’  A brief pause.  ‘William, I want to leave him’.   

For some reason her admission takes me by surprise.  Len is evidently a crashing bore but somehow I  thought they were happy.  I ask Susan what she’s going to do.  She tells me if they didn’t have Lea she would have left him long ago.  ‘Does he beat you?’  I ask clumsily.  Susan laughs but it sounds hollow.  ‘No, of course he doesn’t.  Len respects women like everyone else…albeit in an old fashioned way’.   I move over to sit down on the bed with Susan.   She’s wearing a low cut top and I can see her perfectly formed breasts.  She leans into me. I’m seized by an almost overwhelming desire to take her and have her there and then but manage to keep my hands to myself.  Not certain what she wants.  So I tell her it’ll be alright, though I’ve no idea why, or if it will.  She moves her head and looks up at me. ‘It’ll be alright’ I say again, and when I press her closer to me, she reaches around my waist.  The noise from outside has died away.  It seems like the room is shrinking.  ‘What do you want, William?’ she asks.  ‘I don’t know’ I reply pathetically, and with a vague sense I’m succumbing to temptation.  Susan buries her head in my chest and I run my fingers through her hair. She looks up at me again.  A wind blows the lace curtains open. 

‘Kiss me’ she says and touches my lips with her finger.  We bump noses, I realise I’m drunk again, and then kiss her lips as gently as I can.  ’Do it again’ she says, gazing mistily at me.  I kiss her once more and roll her over so she’s lying on the bed and we lock mouths.  For an instant I forget everything, lost in a moment.    With my eyes closed I massage her breasts and move my hands up and down her waist.  She begins undoing my jean belt.  ’Take off your shirt too’ Susan whispers, so I sit back and take if off, pulling Susan up into a sitting position, kissing her on the mouth, on the shoulders and under her chin.  Then I reach around her lower back and pull her top up and over her head.  It comes off easily.  I undo her bra and suck her nipples.  We clutch at each other and Susan bites me on my chest and whispers something else.  I’m grasping her buttocks and don’t hear her the first time. ‘Take off your Trousers’ she whispers again. ‘What?’ ‘Take off your Trousers’.  I break off.  ’Are you sure?’   I don’t know why I’ve a bad feeling surfacing inside me.  ‘You’d rather not?’  There’s a hint of dejection in her voice.  I kiss her again.  ‘What if your husband finds us?’.   ’I hate him’ she replies.  ’Do you like your wife?’  I’m still straddled on top of her and suddenly not sure of myself at all.  I kiss her tentatively on the lips, then twice on her neck.  ’Don’t ask.  Please don’t ask’ I say eventually.  Susan apologises. I sit looking down at her for a short while  and then mention something about needing to go back outside.  ‘Are you leaving?’  Susan asks.  I kiss her.  And kiss her hard another time.  ‘I’ve got to go’ I lie.  ‘Really? Already?’  ‘Yes’ I reply and get up on my feet, tucking my shirt into my pants.  ‘William’ she says.  I’m trying to fasten my belt but my hands are shaking.  ‘Yes?’.  There’s a pause.  Susan puts her top back on.  ‘Oh nevermind, it doesn’t matter’.  ‘It doesn’t matter?’.  ‘It’s nothing’ Susan replies.  I pick up my beer, half empty.  ‘Okay’ I say and make for the door. Susan follows me out, pushing up her bra.

Back on the lawn it seems the party is winding down.  A couple and their little red headed boy come up to Susan to say their goodbyes.  I go and find my wife.  She’s not with Len anymore but watching four or five boys including James play a video game inside the marquee.  ’Where have you been?’ she inquires ‘You look a little flustered?’.  I tell her I’ve been helping inside.  ’Doing what?’.  The last half hour is a blur.  ’The washing up’ I reply.  She puts her arm around my waist.  ’That’s more like it’ she whispers and squeezes my hand.  I try and smile back, although I’m torn.  She rests her head on my shoulder.  ‘I’m sorry’ she says quietly.  ‘I’m sorry for cutting you so little slack this last week’.  I say it’s okay, thinking of Susan.  My wife looks at me and smiles.  ‘You’re doing well, honey’.  ‘I’m trying’ I reply, but I can’t get her out of my mind. ‘I know you are’ my wife replies, ‘I know you are’, and she kisses me on the cheek.